


Where Have I Seen Your Face Before

by uistic



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Amnesia, Dean is a Good Friend, How Do I Tag, M/M, Or Is he?, Possibly Unrequited Love, Road Trips, Roman is a Good Friend Too, Seth Wants It All
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9725270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uistic/pseuds/uistic
Summary: He wakes up alone in a hospital bed, every part of his body aching, including muscles he's not sure he could even name, and his first thought isWhat if I can't wrestle again?He doesn’t know where that came from, who he is, or what happened to put him here. Car accident? Mugging? Plane crash? A fall from a four story window? Nothing rings a bell. He's relieved to find that he can move, at least. The pain is familiar, somehow, like he’s been hurt before in much the same way, and that should probably be distressing if it wasn’t for the fact that right now, he’ll take any familiarity he can get.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I wasn't going to write any more multi-chaptered fics after The Sweetest Thing, but here's the thing: If I don't post this I'll never stop editing it, and if I don't stop editing now, I'll never get anywhere.
> 
> The tags and ratings will probably change as I update.

He wakes up alone in a hospital bed, every part of his body aching, including muscles he's not sure he could even name, and his first thought is _What if I can't wrestle again?_

He doesn’t know where that came from, who he is, or what happened to put him here. Car accident? Mugging? Plane crash? A fall from a four story window? Nothing rings a bell. He's relieved to find that he can move, at least. The pain is familiar, somehow, like he’s been hurt before in much the same way, and that should probably be distressing if it wasn’t for the fact that right now, he’ll take any familiarity he can get. 

When the nurse comes, she calls him Seth and asks how he's doing, cheerful and unconcerned. Tells him he's still under observation but should be released soon. The only time her composure cracks a little is when she asks if he has someone who can come pick him up. ”You really shouldn’t be alone. Isn’t there anyone - a neighbor, a coworker...?" 

"It's fine, I'll just take a cab. I won’t be alone, my brother will be home later tonight.” He’s surprised at how smoothly the lie passes over his lips. Lying feels like second nature and he adds it to the short list of things he knows about himself: Seth. Wrestler. Liar. 

He doesn’t tell her about the memory loss. They'd keep him there and it doesn’t feel safe. He can’t explain why, just knows that there’s something he needs to do, someone he needs to see, and that’s not going to happen trapped in a hospital bed racking up bills he might not have the means to pay for. 

When he gets his things back, he finds a driver’s license in his wallet and gets a surname to go with his first. Rollins. Seth Rollins. He's 29 years old, has a car parked somewhere if the keys in his pocket are anything to go by, likes melon-flavored gum, apparently works somewhere with a dresscode, given the suit and tie, but prefers skinny jeans and band tees in his downtime. He clearly works out. Slightly worrying is the lube and the sweaty, shiny latex gear that makes him suspect that his personal life might be just a little bit out there. Which, given what he’s done to his hair, probably shouldn't be that surprising. 

His phone is locked and he can’t remember the pin code. There are no missed calls. No messages. What kind of a person wakes up alone in a hospital with two broken ribs, a minor concussion and enough bruises to last them a lifetime without anyone around who gives a damn? 

It takes a couple of hours before he gets released and his phone remains stubbornly silent the whole time. He gets a headache when he tries to read, can’t get into his phone to listen to music, so he ends up just sitting on the bed, watching the sky outside of the window and struggling to piece together what he knows. He's still in Pittsburgh, but according to a scrawled note in his calendar he was supposed go to Detroit yesterday. There’s nothing indicating why. He wonders if he’s lost his job for not showing up or if the reason no one’s called him is because everyone who needs to know already does. He travels a lot, apparently. Before Pittsburgh was Allentown, Brooklyn, Washington, Newark, Buffalo… he’s flipped back through the pages and it just goes on and on, city after city after city, often up to four different places a week. He’s even been overseas. It’s insane. What is he, a rockstar? A traveling salesman? An escort? 

He worries about the hospital bills right up until he finds out that they’ve already been taken care of. The receptionist looks at him as if he ought to know that, so he can’t bring himself to ask by whom. He just grabs his bag and heads off to the elevator, like he has any idea where the hell he’s going and how he’s going to get there. 

The phone, he thinks. If he can just get it open he’ll have access to his contact lists, e-mail, social media accounts. Maybe there’s photos. Probably there will be someone he can call. Family members. A boss. Something. He steps out of the elevator on the ground floor, lost in thought, and it takes him a while to realize that someone’s saying his name. 

He looks up, catches a glimpse of messy amber hair, blue eyes, jeans and boots and a leather jacket thrown over a muscular frame, and the recognition goes through him like a jolt.

”…Dean?” 

The relief of seeing something, _someone_ he knows makes him lightheaded. It doesn’t even matter that that is all he knows: just the name, the face, and an impression of safety and comfort and home. He would kill for a hug right now, for a chance to bury his face in the crook of that neck and breathe in the scent of something familiar, but the man - Dean - takes a step back, lips tightening.  

”Where’s mom and dad?” he says, with enough brittle contempt to make Seth pull up short.

Are they family? It feels right and wrong at the same time. Seth remembers a kiss, or he thinks he does, skin against skin and a hand tangled in his hair, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He hopes Dean’s not his brother. Hopes that whatever else is wrong with him, _that_ one isn’t on the list.  

”I... don't know?” Dean glares and it makes Seth's guts twist. He's the only familiar thing in a sea of strange and suddenly Seth feels like his life depends on his ability to appease him. "I'm sure they'd be here if they could." 

It's apparently the wrong thing to say, because Dean gives a harsh, mocking laugh. "Sure they would." 

It hits Seth that Dean doesn't like him and doesn't think that mom or dad does either. Whatever they are - brothers? ex-boyfriends? - they’re not on good terms, and judging by the way Dean looks at him, he thinks it’s Seth’s fault. Seth doesn’t know what to do with that. He could apologize, but he wouldn’t even know what for. 

A man pushes past them to get into the elevator. They’re blocking the way, and when Seth starts walking Dean doesn’t follow. He panics a little, but he’s too proud to turn back and ask for help from someone who hates him, and look at that, another item for his list: Seth. Wrestler. Liar. Proud. Possibly stupid, too, because it’s not like he’s oblivious to the fact that getting himself checked out of a hospital with no memories and nowhere to go can’t be the best idea he’s ever had, but the decision’s already made and he’ll be damned if he’s going to go back on it now. 

It’s a cold, windy day, and he pulls his coat tighter as he exits the hospital, pausing on the curb to take stock of his surroundings. His head hurts. His ribs hurt. He stares at the traffic, hugging the handle of his bag, trying to think of something to do. Hail a cab, probably. Ask the driver to take him… where? 

"Hey." Dean grabs his arm from behind, pressing down on a fresh set of bruises. Seth hisses between his teeth, and Dean lets go as if it burns. There is a strange look on his face, wary and exasperated and worried all at the same time. "You all right?" 

Seth almost laughs at that. He’s so far from all right that he can’t even begin to describe it. He gives a tight little nod, not trusting his voice to carry. 

”What did the doctor say?” 

”Bruised mostly. Mild concussion. I just have to-” 

”-yeah, not my first rodeo.” Dean rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and stares at Seth until Seth starts looking for an escape route just in case his first instinct was wrong and Dean is less about safety and more about skinning him alive and wearing him like a coat. Finally Dean gestures towards the parking lot. ”Come on. I’ll give you a ride.” 

Seth should probably decline. He can’t remember his mom, but he bets she taught him to never get in the car with a stranger, and he knows weird things about the man in front of him, like the way his eyes light up when he smiles or how he looks with his hair plastered against his skull after a shower or the fact that he can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but that doesn’t mean he _knows_ him. 

”Look, asshole,” Dean snaps. "You can’t drive, you can’t stay here, and the Authority clearly doesn’t give a fuck. You’d really rather try to get a cab than spend ten minutes in a car with me? Seriously?” 

”All right. Yeah. Thank you." 

Dean gives him that weird look again. ”Whatever. Don’t make me regret it.” He turns and strides away, leaving Seth to trail behind him, hoping that wherever Dean takes him will be somewhere that feels at least vaguely like home. 

 

It’s a hotel. It’s a goddamned hotel and Dean leaves him standing right there in the lobby with a gruff ”better go call daddy, huh?” as a parting shot. Seth grits his teeth and walks up to the counter. 

”Morning,” he says to the clerk on the other side, trying not to see the his double-take at the sight of his bruised face. "I’ve misplaced my key, do you think you could…?” 

”Sure thing. What’s your room number, sir?” 

Seth rubs his face with the back of his hand. He feels a lot like crying. Everything’s hurting and he just wants to lie down and not have to think for a while. ”I don’t- I can’t remember. Two hundred…something? Maybe?” He takes up his wallet and slides his driver’s license over the counter. ”Can't you look it up on my name?” 

The clerk glances at the license, types at his computer and then frowns. ”This isn’t…” He looks up, uncertain. "Sir, are you certain you’re in the right place?” 

”Let me guess,” Seth says tiredly. ”You can’t find me.” 

”I can, but- Sir, you checked out early yesterday morning.” 

Seth stares at him and then he laughs wearily. ”Of course I did.” He doesn’t like the way the clerk is looking at him, a mixture of wariness and pity. He takes his driver’s license and sticks it back into his wallet. ”Thanks anyway.”  

He finds a bench outside of the hotel where he sits down, feeling as if the wind has been knocked out of him. The phone is still dead quiet and he can’t help but fret about it. How is it possible that no one wonders? If he’s really this lonely, shouldn’t he _know_? He sniffs, rubbing his cold nose with the back of his hand. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when someone joins him. He glances up, surprised to see Dean again, cigarette in hand. 

”What is it with you and sidewalks these days? Pretty sure the hospital didn't release you just so you could freeze your ass off." He digs out a lighter from his pocket and cups his hand around the flame for a moment.  

He’s got beautiful hands, Seth notices. Of course he does. Bastard. ”I checked out yesterday.” 

”Shit. You guys like to travel right after the show, don’t you? Probably had fucking plane tickets booked and everything.” Dean takes a deep drag of the cigarette and is courteous enough to blow the smoke the other way. ”Why didn’t you tell me?” 

”Forgot,” Seth says, and it occurs to him that it’s the most honest thing he’s said since waking up. 

”Huh.” Dean nods at the phone Seth’s still clutching like a lifeline. "You talk to Hunter yet?” 

The name ought to mean something to him, but it doesn’t. This place ought to mean something, but the more he struggles to remember, the worse it gets. 

Seth. Wrestler. Liar. Proud. 

Dean. 

That’s not a lot to go by. He swallows thickly, forces himself to keep it together, to act like someone who knows who he is and what he’s doing. ”I can't remember my goddamned pin code.” 

The admission - or maybe the edge of frustration in his voice - earns him Dean’s full attention. ”For real? It’s the same you’ve used for years.” He holds out his hand, snapping his fingers impatiently when Seth hesitates. ”Gimme.” 

Seth hands over the phone and Dean unlocks it on the first try. ”Shawn Michael’s year of birth. Come on, you knew that.” He tosses the phone back to Seth, who struggles to catch it with fingers already numb from the cold. Dean’s eyebrows draw together. "You sure you’re all right?" 

”How did you-?" 

”You think just because you walked away I forgot everything I ever knew about you?” Dean leans his head back against the wall and breathes out, watching the smoke rise against the grey sky. ”You hate changing your passwords. Bet I could still get into your e-mail if I wanted to.” 

_That’s more than I could_ , Seth wants to say, but doesn’t. He scrolls through his contacts and call history, looking for anything that will strike a chord. There's not a lot of numbers there and only a few that he uses regularly. He doesn’t have Dean’s number. He does have Hunter's, whoever that is. According to the phone's history he doesn’t call Hunter; Hunter calls him. Their talks are short, rarely more than five minutes, and the texts are all business.  

_Here goes nothing_ , Seth thinks, and calls. He leans back against the stone wall, closes his eyes and listens as the signals go through, one after the other. When the call goes to voice mail he hangs up, equal parts disappointed and relieved. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dean watching him. Seth turns his head towards him. "We're not friends, are we?" 

Dean laughs, harsh and sudden. "I wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire." 

It's not entirely true, Seth knows that much, but it's probably more true than not. He can’t figure out why Dean gave him a ride from the hospital or why he’s out here talking to him now. He tries to pull the coat's sleeves over his fingers. "Do I have any friends? Anyone I could call who'd care?” 

”Why the hell are you asking _me_?” 

Fuck, it’s cold. Seth sniffs again, rubbing his hands together. ”You’re here. Hunter’s not picking up. I guess I could call whoever but I don’t know who any of these people are.” He jabs at the phone, angrily. "I don’t know who Hunter is or why you want me to talk to him. I can’t tell the goddamned pizza delivery guy from my own father. It’s just _names_. It doesn’t - I can’t- _I don’t know who I am_!” 

He throws the phone against the pavement, watching it shatter, and it’s extremely satisfying for exactly two seconds before he realizes what he’s done. He’s down on the ground in an instant, picking at the pieces of plastic and glass that was his only way to learn anything about himself. 

”Shit,” Dean says.

Seth laughs brokenly, cradling the pieces of his broken phone in his hands. His head is pounding like it’s about to split right open. ”Yeah. Shit." 

”Do the doctors know-?” 

”No. They’d have kept me there and I couldn’t-” The cold from the ground is seeping into his jeans, gravel cutting into his knees. He stares at the broken phone for a while, then drops it and climbs to his feet, feeling far, far older than his twenty-nine years. He can’t look at Dean but he hears him stand, feels a light brush of fingers against his shoulder.  

”I hear you. Fucking awful places, hospitals.”

Seth turns, surprised. ”You’re not gonna tell me I’m an idiot?” 

”Like I wouldn’t have done the same thing.” He takes a last drag of his cigarette and tosses it. ”Honestly? I don’t know if you have any friends. I mean, back in Iowa probably, but on the roster? Dunno, man. Think it's all about work for you.” 

He’d guessed as much, but it still hurts hearing it. What kind of a person doesn’t have any friends? Is it his fault or theirs? He stands up slowly, grimacing at the pain of it and at the wave of nausea that rolls through him. The insistent pounding in his head is getting worse. ”What do I do?” 

”Shit, I don’t know." 

”I mean for a living. I've got this crazy itinerary I can't make sense of, city to city, and it's Tuesday, I should probably be at work but no one's missed me, no one's wondered where the fuck I am, and my hospital bills were all taken care of and I've got weird shit in my bag and if I'm some high-end escort or a stripper or errand boy for the mob-" 

”Whoa, hold up. Just what do you have in your bag? No, wait, don’t tell me. Whatever weird sex games you've got going with Hunter is your business, I don't want to know." He shakes his head as if trying to dislodge the mental image from his mind, and Seth just stares at him. When Dean seems to realize that he’s serious about not his question, his expression changes into something more difficult to read. "You're a wrestler." 

"Yeah, I know _that_ , but what's my real..." Seth trails off and thinks about the bruises littering his body, the fresh ones as well as the ones already yellowing and faded. He thinks of the contents of his bag, protein shakes, towel and compression shorts and kneepads and tape and boots and- "Holy shit. I'm a wrestler. _Professionally_.” He pauses, looks at Dean. "Am I any good?" 

 

As it turns out, he is. He sits on Dean’s bed with a borrowed iPad in his hands, watching himself wrestle on Youtube. It's a relief to find that he’s not moonlighting as a sex worker, but he can’t deny those pants look kind of fetishy, especially combined with the black latex gloves. It’s not a bad look, per se, and as far as fashion choices seem to go in the world of professional wrestling he’s still definitely on the side of the angels, but he can’t blame himself for jumping to conclusions.  

He's found his Wikipedia page, but it makes his head ache, names and places and dates he can’t keep straight. Easier to stick to the wrestling videos. Those, at least, make sense, he can feel the rightness of it with every traded blow he witnesses, every drop kick and curb stomp and phoenix splash. It makes his heart race in a good way, reminds him that, hey, look at that, there is _something_ in this world that he loves, something that loves him back. 

Dean's in the bathroom on the phone, voice agitated, and Seth's trying hard not to listen even when he hears his own name mentioned. Instead he just turns up the sound, hitting the next video, and the next. There’s no way to piece together a whole life from random bits and pieces of wrestling matches, but he does the best he can. The wrestling itself falls into place easily. It’s the rest that haunts him. Roman Reigns is familiar in the same way Dean is, a sense of happiness and home, but there are screenshots and thumbnails of him taking a chair to Roman’s back and he can’t watch that, not yet. He's still busy trying to wrap his head around the rest of it. 

When Dean finally comes out, he’s watching highlights from their Hell in a Cell-match a couple of months ago, the two of them full-on brawling while hanging off the side of the steel construct. His heart's in his throat and just when it looks like they’re both about to fall Dean leans forward and shuts the video down. He takes the iPad out of Seth's hands and shoves it into the bag. "C'mon. We're going." 

"Where?" 

"I'm taking you back to the hospital." 

Seth stops halfway through rising and plants himself right back down on the bed again. The sudden movement sends a wave of nausea through him.  "No." 

"What are you, three?" Dean glares, exasperated. ”Look, I talked to Roman, and he’s smarter than both of us combined, so we’re doing this his way. You don't know who you are. I've got a show to do and a four hour drive, I can't be here babysitting your ass. And here’s the thing. If you did remember anything - anything at all - there is no way in hell you would have left that hospital until you were a hundred percent sure you were fine. Because I may be a crazy son of a bitch, but you’re not, and when Hunter sticks you in a hospital bed and tells you stay put you stay put, like a good little boy, because you love wrestling more than you’ve ever loved anyone or anything and you’d die before you risked your entire career on some stupid, ill-advised scheme like this.” 

”No.” Seth stands up and crosses his arms. ”You don’t get to make decisions for me. You got to go, you go. I’ll be fine.” 

”How the _hell_ will you be fine? You don’t know who you are, you don’t know where you’re going, hell, you don’t even have a phone anymore.” 

”That’s not your problem, is it?” He raises his chin, staring at Dean. ”I have a car. I’ll drive to Detroit. Find Hunter. If I recognized you, I bet I’ll recognize him too.” 

For a moment, Dean looks like he’s been slapped. Then he laughs darkly. ”Oh, he’d love that, wouldn’t he? A blank slate, a vulnerable, impressionable Seth Rollins, ready to have his entire past rewritten, to believe every little lie he tells. And he’s such a _good_ liar. He’ll have you eating out of the palm of his hand.” 

”If he’s so bad, why were you so insistent I call him?” 

”Because I didn’t know you’d forgotten!” Dean practically screams in his face. ”Because calling Daddy when the going gets rough is what you do, you pathetic cowardly son of a _bitch_!” 

Seth blinks. He should probably feel threatened by a guy of Dean's size getting all up in his personal space like that, but his body’s reacting with a surge of adrenaline that has very little to do with fear, and he’s suddenly aware of how close they are to one another and how little it would take to bridge that distance. He breathes in; takes a step back. 

”I don’t actually remember why you hate me,” he says quietly, even as his mind is busy adding more items to the mental tally. 

Seth. Wrestler. Liar. Proud. Coward. 

Something complicated is there and gone on Dean’s face and he lets out a ragged breath, lowering his shoulders in what seems to be a conscious attempt to appear unthreatening. ”Which is why you should go to the hospital.” 

That's not going to happen, and there's no point arguing about it. ”Just tell me one last thing, and I’ll get out of your hair. How’d I get injured? Was it a match?" 

Dean looks faintly ill. ”They didn’t tell you?”

It seems strange that they wouldn’t, but then again, maybe everyone at the hospital assumed he knew. It’s not like he asked. Or maybe they didn’t want to upset him by bringing it up. ”I mean, they might have. But I’ve got nothing.” 

There is a moment when he thinks that Dean will refuse to tell him. Then he nods grimly. ”Does the name Randy Orton ring any bells?” 

It’s not a memory, not exactly. It’s just that the air in the room suddenly gets thinner, the walls closer, and he can feel his heart racing, his pulse pounding in his ears. There’s a roar in his head, a taste of blood in his mouth, and for a moment he thinks of concrete and feet all around him and bright, glaring lights in his eyes. He swallows thickly. ”I… don’t think I like him.” 

”Good. I’d be worried if you did.” Dean looks at him for a long while, then sighs. ”What the hell, Roman can only kill me once. You can ride with me to Detroit. I’m pretty sure they’ve got hospitals and doctors there too.” 

Seth doesn’t know what prompted him to change his mind, but he’s not stupid enough to ask. With the way his head is pounding he’s not sure he’d be up for the drive, and even if he were, he has no idea where his car is parked or even what it looks like. 

”I’m pretty sure I won’t need them. But thanks.” 

Dean shakes his head. ”I’m so fucking dead,” he mutters as he grabs his bag and heads for the door. ”So. Fucking. Dead."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth doesn't know if the real Seth Rollins, the one with all the memories, enjoys long car rides. But even concussed and nauseated he finds that he does. It eases the sense of alienation. So what if the open stretch of road ahead means nothing to him? How often does anyone recognize their surroundings while traveling? Dean is right there, close enough to touch, and as long as the car is moving there is no way for him to get up and walk away.

Seth doesn't know if the real Seth Rollins, the one with all the memories, enjoys long car rides. But even concussed and nauseated he finds that he does. It eases the sense of alienation. So what if the open stretch of road ahead means nothing to him? How often does anyone recognize their surroundings while traveling? Dean is right there, close enough to touch, and as long as the car is moving there is no way for him to get up and walk away.

It’s probably unhealthy as fuck. He’s going to have to figure something out that doesn’t rely on him trailing after Dean like a lovesick puppy. That’s one hell of a burden to place on someone, and he knows Dean can’t wait to be rid off him. But for now he’s fine, because Detroit and the arena are still hours away and without a working phone there’s nothing he can do.

His head hurts, so he closes his eyes and listens to the hum of engine for a while. He should probably have filled his prescriptions before getting in the car, but it's too late for that now. Maybe he can persuade Dean to stop and get a coffee or a coke or something. He opens his eyes, blinks against the sharp brightness of the overcast sky. ”So, what did Roman say?”

”You mean apart from making me promise I’d take you to a hospital ASAP?” Dean glances at him. ”He’s worried. About both of us, I think. A little concerned that this amnesia is just some fucked up way to get under my skin.”

Seth thinks about that for a while. ”Would I?”

”Wouldn’t even be the worst thing you’ve pulled." Dean shrugs, unconcerned, like Seth's past transgressions are nothing to him. Water under the bridge. But there's a tightness to his jaw that belies his nonchalance, and Seth doesn't know how to respond.

A part of him desperately wants to ask. Nothing he's done can be worse than the things he's envisioning right about now, but then again, the real Seth Rollins seems to have a capacity for cruelty that he’s not entirely convinced that he shares. It's no wonder Dean doesn't particularly like him. Seth's not entirely sure he likes himself, based on the glimpses he's seen so far.

"What did you say?"

Dean shrugs. "Told him he didn't see the look in your eyes. No way could you ever fake that kind of panic.” He shifts his grip on the wheel and it looks a lot like a caress. ”You remember Roman?”

”Kind of. Not really.”

”Which one is it?”

”As much as I remember you, I guess. I wouldn’t say I know him, I just know… things.”

”Things,” Dean echoes. ”Like?”

”Like he carries a ten center in his pocket for luck. He likes his coffe black with a little sugar. He snores when he sleeps on his back, and his spear feels like being hit by a truck."

"All right. Now do me."

At the teasing tone in Dean's voice all the fragmented memories Seth has of Dean vanishes until he can only remember one.

"Are you _blushing_?"

"What? No!" Seth presses his hands to his burning cheeks.

"You are!" Dean crows, delighted. "What, is it embarrassing? Is it _filthy_? Aww, princess, have you been having dirty thoughts about me? And here I thought you were straight."

"I... _what_?" Seth turns his head so fast a wave of nausea rolls through him. He stares at Dean, dumbstruck. Because that's not - that's not even close to his experience, so far. "You mean we've never... uh...?"

Something unreadable passes over Dean's face before it becomes shuttered, all playfulness instantly gone. "What, you and me?" His voice is strangely chilly. "No." 

"Oh." Seth's not sure why he feels like the air's been punched out of his lungs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... assumed..."

It doesn't make sense. He remembers so little, and among those fragmented memories that kiss stands out as the most vivid one. He knows exactly how Dean's lips would feel like against his, how he'd tilt his head, a little to the left, the playful nip of his teeth. Did he make it up? Or is Dean lying? If he is, Seth has no way to know or to double check. He can either trust blindly or doubt everything, and he doesn’t know which prospect disturbs him more.

Seth stares down at his hands and tries to add up what he knows. He's a wrestler and that's a fact, not an opinion. He's a coward, according to Dean, and a pretty shitty person all around, but not so bad that Dean's willing to leave him stranded. He's from Iowa. He has no friends. And, again according to Dean, he's straight.

It's not that he's not into women. There is a gentle pooling of warmth in the pit of his stomach as he considers it, imagines running his hands over a soft, curved body, the weight and warmth of a full breast in his cupped hand, dipping his head between welcoming thighs, his lips touching the slick heat - okay, yeah, that's definitely a scenario he'll revisit later, once he's alone in the shower.

But then he thinks of Dean, the angular planes of his body, broad shoulders, narrow waist, his five o'clock shadow rasping against his skin, his smoky, irreverent laughter and the weight of his body pinning him down and it sends a lick of heat up his spine, makes his stomach clench and his mouth go dry. He clears his throat uncomfortably, turning his head to stare out through the side window.

Is he closeted? Is his bisexuality an open secret or the kind he's supposed to take to his grave? Will the real Seth suffer fallout if he says too much? Does Dean know? He can't exactly ask. Maybe the kiss is just a very old, favored fantasy, one that he's entertained so often that he can't help but look at Dean and remember.

One thing is certain. Seth needs more perspectives than just Dean's. He needs a whole slew of people who knows him, the good and the bad of him, and the best place to find that is in Detroit, at the arena. That doesn’t mean he's willing to go in blind. 

"Hey, Dean?" He hates the tentative tone in his voice. He has a feeling the real Seth wouldn't sound like that and if he's about to pull this off, he needs to get over it fast. "When you asked about mom and dad at the hospital, you weren't talking about my actual parents, were you?"

”What? No. _Ew_."

Seth just looks at him, waiting.

"Hunter is... your boss, I guess. Your mentor. If you ask me, he's a lying sack of shit, but." Dean falls silent, watching the road ahead. Seth resists the urge to prompt him. The silence sounds considering rather than definite, like Dean’s wrestling with something he’s not sure how to say. "I don't know, man. You seem to like him."

"And mom?"

"Stephanie McMahon. Hunter's wife, owner's daughter, pretty much runs the place. Coldest, most ruthless person you'll ever meet."

”I assume I get along with her too?"

Dean shrugs. "Like calls to like, I guess." 

There's no particular malice there, but it's still a jab and Seth feels it.

Seth. Wrestler. Liar. Proud. Coward.

Cold. Ruthless.

Hopelessly attracted to Dean Ambrose, who may or may not be an honest man, who may or may not loathe his ass as much as he claims.

”They’re the Authority?” he guesses.

”Uh huh.” Dean shoots him a suspicious glance. ”What are you planning?”

Seth shrugs and looks down on his hands. ”Nothing particular. It just occurred to me that when we get there, there will be a shitload of people who know who I am while I’ll have no clue about any of them. Just nice to have some idea of what I’m walking into."

"You're not. Walking into anything. Seriously, Seth, this memory loss is some scary shit and if you think I'm going to let you just shrug it off and act like nothing-"

Seth tilts his head back and looks at Dean. There's a tense, unhappy slant to his mouth, and his fingers are tapping restlessly against the wheel. "You're not letting me do anything. Dean, come on. You're not responsible for me. Hell, if it turns out I'm brain damaged and I fall down dead two minutes after entering the arena-"

"Don't even joke about it."

"-then that's on me, not you." Seth nudges Dean’s arm. "Hey. I mean it. I may not remember, but I'm still an adult and capable of making my own decisions. All right?"

Dean just shakes his head, thin-lipped.

"You're going to have to trust me. Or if you can't, I mean, I'm an asshole, right? I've done some pretty crappy stuff. So if it all goes to hell I probably had it coming and you can just sit back and enjoy-"

"Goddammit Seth!" Dean slams his hands against the wheel, making Seth jump. "Just- shut up. Stop talking. All right? Give me ten fucking seconds here, is that too much to ask for?"

Seth's heart is pounding in his throat and he doesn’t know if he's more shocked at the outburst or his body's fight-or-flight response. Dean looks ragged, more pained than angry, and Seth draws a breath to apologize.

"Don't. Just. Shut up, Seth." Dean rubs a hand across his face.

In the tense, unhappy silence that follows, Seth turns his head away and stares out the window while he's trying to get his heart rate back to normal and add together these new pieces to the puzzle. If Dean reacts that badly to being told... what? That he can't control Seth? Can't keep him safe? Or that he might enjoy watching Seth suffer? Then that means something, even if Seth's not entirely sure of what. The silence stretches long and taut between them, because Seth is damned if he's going to be the one to break it. Dean wants him to shut up? Fine. He'll shut up all the way to Detroit, if that’s what it takes.

He wonders how fast he can get back in the ring again, because he's sure that if he can just feel the ropes against his back, the mat under his feet, all the missing pieces will fall into place and things will make sense again. He aches for it like an amputee for their missing limb.

"You hate me."

It's twenty miles later, and Dean's words are so out of left field that it takes Seth several moments just to remember what they'd been talking about before. "I- don't, actually."

"Not you," Dean snaps. " _You_."

Like there's a distinction. It's weirdly comforting to realize that Dean does it too, thinks of the person he is now and the person he used to be as two separate entities sharing the same body.

"You look at me like something vile stuck under your shoe. I thought I was good at the mic, but you- _damn_ , Seth. You take cutting vicious, nasty promos to the next level." Dean's lips quirk in something that's not exactly a smile. His gaze is firmly locked ahead, but his shoulders are down, hands loose and relaxed on the wheel. He sounds almost thoughtful. "Roman wanted to give you the benefit of a doubt when you left. Said you had a plan, because you always had a plan. Said you'd come back. You'd explain. You'd have your reasons. I knew, though. Been in this fucking business long enough to know there's no such thing as a promise kept. Loyalty's for losers, right? What's friendship compared to a title shot when you're Seth Rollins, the golden boy."

"I don't-"

"You don't remember, yeah, I know." Dean does that little almost-smile again, hands stroking the wheel. "It's funny, everyone thought I'd be the one to break up the Shield. Shows what they know. I was in, man. I trusted you. Pretty fucking hilarious, right? God, you must have been so _proud_ of yourself. I wonder if you ever hesitated. If there was ever any doubt, or if you knew from the moment you approached us how it was all going to go down. That's one hell of a long game."

This time, when Dean falls silent, Seth doesn't try to speak. It's not a conversation as much as a monologue, and anyway Seth's heart is up in his throat and he's not certain his voice wouldn't give that away. He wipes his clammy palms against his jeans and wishes he'd thought to move the gum from the bag to his pocket.

"Guess what I'm trying to say is that you're right. You want to walk right up to Hunter and tell him 'help me daddy, I don't remember who I am', go right ahead. I can't wait to see how that turns out for you."

There doesn't seem to be much to say to that. Another half dozen miles pass in silence, and then Seth shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. "Hey, can we stop for like five minutes? I need a coke, my head's killing me."

"For real? _That's_ what you're going with?"

"Well... I kinda need a bathroom break too."

Dean grumbles, but pulls over at the next truck stop they find. When they get back on the road after the stop the mood's lighter. Dean finally turn on the radio, and two regular pain killers and half a bottle of coke later Seth's head feels a little better. They wind up talking about wrestling, and Dean has enough stories to last them years, especially now that Seth's hearing all of them as for the first time.

As the Detroit skyline draws closer, anxiety starts squirming like a nest of snakes in Seth's guts. He falls quiet, watching the traffic pick up, the buildings gain in size, feeling the end of the ride looming closer. Dean navigates the city traffic with the casual ease of someone who does it all the time. He finds the arena without problems, whistling as they pull up to the gates. He flashes his ID at the bored security guard, who waves them through without a second glance. For a brief, desperate moment Seth wishes they could turn the car around and keep driving.

The underground garage is dark and dank, even with the yellow lights flickering overhead. Seth stares out over the rows and rows of cars as Dean’s searching for a free spot, worrying at his lip with his teeth. "Don't think I didn't notice that you never told me about Randy Orton."

Dean parks the car and turns off the engine before he answers. ”You sure you want to know?”

He’s not sure of anything, especially not when the name alone is enough to make him anxious. But better now, from Dean, than later from someone who’ll use his ignorance against him. He removes the seatbelt and turns to Dean.

”I think I probably should. Seeing as how I'm bound to run into him at some point.”

”All right.” Dean drags a hand through his hair and leans back in his seat. ”Okay. Well, long story short, Randy turned on you during a match. After the bell rang, Randy got back into the ring and proceeded to beat you senseless.”

Even trying not to, Seth recalls flashes of a frantic scramble, feet everywhere, sharp lights, and the metallic taste of fear in his mouth, mixed with the salty tang of blood. He remembers - he thinks he remembers - pleading. A relentless, contextless vortex of fury. He feels a fresh wave of nausea and presses his lips into a thin line to swallow it back until it passes.

"We were teaming together?" he finally manages. His voice sounds a little strained even to his own ears.

"Yeah."

"Why did he-?"

"Look." Dean removes his seat belt and gathers up the keys in his hand. "I'm not trying to sound blamey here. There's a reason they call Orton the Viper, and it's not just the cold, creepy eyes. Dude's a snake. But you - you kind of got this talent for making enemies, you know? Antagonizing people. So let's just say he had his reasons for being pissed at you."

"Then why did I-?"

"Fuck do I know? We haven't talked in months. Maybe you trusted him. Maybe Daddy told you to play nice. Maybe you saw it coming. Maybe it's part of some long game you're playing." Dean grimaces, tosses the keys and catches them again. "You haven't exactly made good choices lately."

There's a lot in there for Seth to consider, but his mind snags and gets caught on that throwaway line about making bad choices. He wonders when Dean's definition of lately began. When he turned on the Shield? Sometime after?

When it becomes apparent that Seth's not going to keep asking, Dean nods towards the entrance. "You should go first. You don’t want to be seen arriving with me."

"What if I do?" Seth counters.

Dean huffs out a weary laugh. "You really don't. C'mon, princess, don't argue. I'm running late as it is. Gotta hit up catering and get a workout in before the show." For all that he's practically throwing Seth out of the car, he still stops Seth halfway out with a hand on his wrist. "Seth? Don't trust them. Randy was all smiles until he wasn't, and the rest of the Authority's no different. If they cared about you at all, you wouldn't have been alone at the hospital."

Seth feels nauseated again and can't tell if it's nerves or the concussion speaking. "All right. Thank you."

The real Seth apparently doesn't do thanks, because Dean gives him that strange look again, the one that says he veered off script. Seth doesn't know how to respond to that, so he opens the door and steps out into the garage, nose immediately assaulted by the smell of motor oil, asphalt and exhaust fumes. 

"Hey." Dean leans over, and there’s something in his voice Seth can’t identify. "Good luck. If you need a ride after the show, you know where the car is."

 

Seth hadn’t expected more security to get inside, but the uniformed woman recognizes him and lets him pass without question. Backstage is a bustling madhouse, or seems to be until he realizes that everyone has a place and a purpose. He feels like the only one walking at random, and it makes no sense that his heart would be in his throat but it is. This is the complete opposite of the blankness of the hospital. Everything is familiar. Every scent, every sound, every voice resonates with him, a constant jarring déjà vu. Like having the word he needs right on the tip of his tongue.

He’s a familiar face here, he can tell. There’s a lot of looks, some curt nods, but no one talks to him until--

"Seth?"

The voice hits him like a kick in the guts. He knows who he's going to see even before he turns around. Roman’s there, still in civilian clothing, sweats and a hoodie, hair pulled back, looking paradoxically both smaller and bigger in real life than he did on youtube. Seth's heart stutters in his chest and it hits him out of nowhere how desperately he wants Roman Reigns to like him. He wonders if that's always been a thing, or if it's just a symptom of the memory loss, latching on to anything known like a drowning man clutching at straws.

"Roman. Hi."

Roman's eyes narrow and he takes a step closer. "Amnesia, huh?"

"Uh..." Seth feels his feet starting to back away and plants them against the ground through sheer effort of will. No way in hell is he going to be scared of his former teammate, even if the man is built like a brick wall in a bad mood. ”Right. Dean told you."

"Uh-huh," Roman says. "You know who I am?"

Seth nods.

"You know what you've done?"

Again, Seth nods. He’s probably missing a few details here and there, but he’s got the gist of it by now: a sudden, shocking betrayal, compounded by months of casual cruelty. It’s weird not to remember an act that so obviously shapes his life and the lives of the people around him, but it is what it is. 

Roman's face darkens. He takes another step, bringing him close enough that Seth has to look up at him to meet his gaze. Seth's heart is hammering in his chest and there's a disconnect there, because none of his memories of Roman are fearful. There are car rides and shared meals, hugs and mock fighting and glittering titles raised above their heads. None of... well, this.

"I'll make it simple for you. Hurt Dean again and I will end you." He looks Seth up and down, gaze lingering on the bruises on his cheek and arms. "I'll finish what Orton started and make what he did to you seem fun."

It makes sense that Roman's protective. It even makes sense that he’s openly hostile, but Seth feels gutted and he wonders if the real Seth would as well, or if the dislike goes both ways. He raises his chin. "Fair enough."

"That's it?" Roman has the gall to sound incredulous. "No threats? No insults?"

Seth gives a one-shouldered shrug, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. ”I don’t remember anything about you worth insulting.” He takes a step back. ”I’ve gotta - I’ve gotta go.” He can feel Roman’s eyes burning into his back as he hurries off, hoping that there will actually be something at the end of the hallway, rather than just a dead end or a supply closet.

He manages to lose Roman in the bustle, manages to get himself lost too. The frustrating feeling of familiar-but-not-quite makes his head hurt, and he keeps flinching whenever someone gets too close, uncertain of who’s safe and who’s not and not up for another confrontation.

It’s ridiculous to be upset. Whatever animosity there is between them Seth has apparently earned several times over. But from his point of view he woke up in a hospital less than twelve hours ago, alone and in pain, trapped in a life that’s not his, forced to answer for crimes he can’t remember committing, and the only two people in the world he kind of sort of remembers thinks he's scum. It's not fair, it hurts, and it pisses him off, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, much like he doesn’t know what to do with the persistent headache or the discomfort swimming right under his skin. He’s given up looking like he knows where he’s going and has moved on to looking for someplace to sit down and be alone for a while, when he hears the sound of stiletto heels against the concrete.

A woman is striding down the hallway, in the middle of an animated conversation on the phone. Even without any context or having overheard more than a few words, Seth can tell that someone has fucked up and is really, really sorry about it. She’s striking, severe even, dressed in strappy heels and a black dress with gray details that is flattering without being revealing. The smooth brown hair that falls freely over her shoulders should probably soften her appearance, but doesn’t.

Their eyes meet, and Seth feels it again, that sharp jolt of recognition. Stephanie McMahon ( _cold, ruthless_ , Dean echoes in his head) slows her steps as she wraps up the call.

”Look,” she says sharply to whoever’s on the phone. ”I. Don’t. Care. Do it again, do it right, and stop bothering me with this nonsense.” She hangs up with an irritated sigh. ”Jesus. I swear, Seth, half of these people should never have been hired to begin. What a bunch of amateurs.” She pushes her hair back over her shoulder and looks at him properly for the first time, and as she does a warm smile transforms her face. ”You wouldn’t believe how glad I am to see you! Come here.” She closes the distance between them and pulls him into a hug. He's not prepared for that, but it turns out that hugging her is pretty much muscle memory, his body knows exactly what to do and how to fold himself in, make himself just a little bit smaller for her. The relief of meeting someone who likes him makes his knees go weak, and he closes his eyes for a moment, breathing in the scent of her shampoo blending with the the mild fragrance she wears. Of all the meaningless information to retain, he finds that he knows exactly what the bottle of fragrance looks like, small and square with cursive lettering and a gold-tinted cap.

”Hi, Steph,” he murmurs in her hair.

She pulls back but holds on to his hands as gives him a scrutinizing look. ”Are you all right? I can’t believe the hospital released you this early. Are you cleared to compete?”

There’s a spike of pain through his temple as he tries to shake his head. ”Nah. Concussion."

”You should be resting. We need you back in shape, honey, not running yourself ragged for nothing.”

That _nothing_ stings a little, but he doesn't have time to examine it so he brushes it aside. ”I know. I just had to be here. I-” He doesn’t know how to explain the urge to come here, to see this for himself. He’s trying to think of a way to tell her about the amnesia, but she intercepts him.

”I get it. You wanted to show everyone that you’re not beaten and you’re not scared. That’s good thinking, I respect that. Hunter will too.” Steph's smile turns soft, wistful. ”You know, Hunter’s exactly the same way. How come all the men in my life are too damn stubborn for their own good?” She reaches up and brushes her knuckles against the bruise on his face. ”You should go let our medical staff take a look at you, though, give us some kind of a timeframe as to when we can expect see you back in the ring. Then come find us and we’ll talk strategy. All right?"

A stage hand comes up and clears his throat. ”Excuse me, Ms McMahon, you’re needed in conference room B.”

She smiles at Seth, pats his arm. ”It’s good to see you, Seth. We’re all proud of you.”

Those words echo in his head long after the sound of her heels has faded, continue to work their magic on his frazzled nerves and aching heart as he finds his way to the medical staff and lets the company doctors push and prod and look him over. It feels like a balm after Roman’s open hostility and Dean’s mixed messages, and for the first time since waking up in the hospital he feels like maybe there is somewhere that he might actually belong.

Like calls to like, Dean said. Seth wonders if that’s why he left them in the first place. Because as much as he wants to kiss Dean, as much as he wants Roman to like him, none of what he feels for them matches their feelings for him. They hate him for what he did, but a part of him can’t help but wonder how much they really liked him before that. No one changes their entire personality over night. Maybe he is everything Dean and Roman says he is. Maybe it’s better to embrace it than to fight it. It feels good, knowing that whoever he is, whatever he’s done, there’s someone in the world who’s proud of him. That there is something that he has done _right_.

It turns out that there’s a difference between ”well” and ”well enough to compete”. Seth’s neither, right now, but in sharp contrast to the doctors at the hospital these ones are less concerned about his head (”I wouldn’t even call it a concussion, just rest a couple of days and you’ll be fine”) than his ribs. He gets four to six weeks of rehab, with plenty of non-strenous activity for the first two weeks and absolutely no weight-lifting or real exercise whatsoever.

”And no wrestling. None. I don’t want you to even think about stepping foot in a ring until you’re cleared. Are you listening?"

”Four to six weeks?” Seth echoes. ”What the hell am I supposed to do for four to six weeks?"

”Minimum,” the doctor says, unimpressed with his whining. ”Go home, Seth. See your family. Play with your dog. Enjoy your time off, god knows you haven’t had a proper vacation in years.” 

It takes all of Seth’s self-control not to blurt out: ”Wait, I have a _dog_?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not lying, not really. No one ever tells people everything. It doesn't mean that he doesn’t trust Hunter, just that he doesn't want to have to deal with his concern on top of everything else. The fewer people who know about the amnesia, the better, especially if he wants to get back in the ring anytime soon.

It hadn't occurred to Seth that a man in a suit could look dangerous, but there is something sharp-edged to Hunter, raw power coiled under a polished surface. He's massive, grizzled and handsome in a way that makes Seth feel just a little lanky and awkward. Without help, Seth wouldn't have been able to identify him in the crowd milling about gorilla, waiting for the show to start, but now that he knows who he’s looking for, he’s finding it difficult to look away.

Hunter's surprisingly short, but he moves like he's head and shoulders above the wrestlers around him, carrying himself with the quiet confidence of a man who knows his worth and his place in the world. He's attractive. Not in the immediate and personal way that Dean is, but having seen it Seth can’t unsee it, and he wonders if that’s the story of his life, these improper, unrequited crushes on coworkers. 

He stays back for a while, watching Hunter lean over the mixing table to talk to the sound technician. Over the general din he can’t make out any words, but he studies Hunter's gestures like they could tell him something about this man whose name keeps coming up. The only thing it does is make him nervous. When Hunter wraps up the conversation and makes as if to leave, Seth steps forward and pitches his voice to carry.

"Hey, Hunter?"

Hunter looks up and smiles, the deep lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling. It’s not necessarily a nice smile, but it’s pleased, and Seth likes that. It gives him the courage to step forward and meet Hunter halfway, accept a friendly slap to the shoulder that is just on the wrong side of painful given the bruises and the broken ribs. Seth manages not to wince. 

"Steph told me you were around. How are you feeling?”

”I’m good,” Seth says. ”I mean, I’m not, but-”

”I hear you.” Hunter pulls Seth close with a hand on the back of his neck, touching their foreheads together. The firm, possessive grip makes something within him that was anxious and jittery settle. It's not even a memory, just a sense of rightness, of being where he belongs. ”Listen. Orton will pay. No one lays a hand on Mr Money in the Bank and gets away with it. We’ve got your back. We’re going to get this settled, once and for all.”

Seth doesn’t know how much of the cold fury in Hunter's voice is on his behalf and he doesn’t really care. It feels good. Hunter releases him, all business again, but Seth's skin is still tingling from the touch of his hand. "When can you wrestle again?"

"Doctor says four to six weeks."

Hunter looks grimly thoughtful. "Better make it four."

Seth can't tell if that's a hope or a threat or an order, but it's not like he disagrees. "It will be."

"That's what I like to hear," Hunter says, and Seth feels a warm glow at the approval, a sudden urge to do whatever it takes to get that again. It’s a little unexpected. He thinks it might explain some things. "I didn't think you'd be here, so I gave Joey and Jamie some time off. They were distraught about what happened."

By now, it comes as no surprise that Seth doesn’t recognize the names, but it’s exhausting stumbling around in the dark. He nods.

"You all right, Seth? You're a little quiet."

"Actually, I'm-" He's one breath away from admitting to the memory loss when something stops him. Maybe it's the way everything goes fraught, Hunter looking at him like there's a right and a wrong answer and Seth's about to disappoint. Or maybe it's Dean's warnings still rattling around in his head. "I'm fine. Just tired, sorry."

It's not lying, not really. No one ever tells people everything. It doesn't mean that he doesn’t trust Hunter, just that he doesn't want to have to deal with his concern on top of everything else. The fewer people who know about the amnesia, the better, especially if he wants to get back in the ring anytime soon. 

"Well, there's no point in you sticking around, is there? You did good showing up, we'll make sure Randy knows you're far from beaten. Now go home, get some rest. We'll be in touch." 

"I was thinking-" Seth begins, but Hunter's done listening. He slaps Seth's shoulder again, a summarily dismissal, and leaves him standing there in the hallway, the rest of the sentence dying on his tongue. It's so abrupt that Seth's left staring, probably looking as crestfallen as he feels. 

Go home. 

Like he has any fucking idea where _home_ is. 

Dismissed or not, Seth still wants to see the show. It's easy enough to find a crew member willing to guide him away from the labyrinthine backstage area and help him find a spot at the back of the crowd where he can stand against the wall and watch without being noticed. Standing at the top row looking down over the noisy crowd and the ring flooded in warm light, so small from a distance, brings the persistent déjà vu back with vengeance. 

He's done this before. Not just watched the show, but watched it from here, at the far back, shrouded in shadow. His heart is in his throat and his hands are itching for the ropes, his body desperate to take flight, and he knows with certainty that if he weren't a wrestler, he'd still be a fan, attending house shows every weekend, collecting tapes and merch and arguing the finer points of the business until the sun came up. 

He's only been out there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes when Roman's music hits accompanied by a solid wall of noise from the crowd, and Seth has to grab the wall to steady himself. He knows that music. He knows the gear, the entrance through the crowd, he's been there, he's done it. More than that, he _remembers_ doing it, fist bumps and high fives and slaps to the back, hands touching his arms, a rolling jump over the barricade, the electricity of the crowd, all eyes on them.

"Seth?" The crew member leans in cose to shout in his ear. "Are you all right?"

He probably looks like he's seen a ghost. Feels like he has, at least. He manages a nod, shrugging off the touch as he watches Roman make his way through the crowd, like Moses through the Red Sea.

"There's always a plan B," Hunter says at the back of his mind, and he remembers steel and plastic in sweaty hands, heart racing, arms pulled back to lift the chair and slam it right across Roman's back, making his knees buckle. Cold. Ruthless. Dean turning, jaw falling open, the look on his face, one of uncomprehending shock, and Seth turns on the one brother still standing, lifts the chair again-

He's out of there before Roman's even reached the ring. 

 

Seth waits by the car for what feels like hours before Dean comes sauntering across the lot, bag slung over his shoulder. He's whistling to himself and doesn't break his stride when he sees Seth. Seth pushes himself up from the hood.

"I-"

Dean powers right through. "I'm starving." He opens the trunk and tosses his bag in. "Let's get food."

Caught off guard, Seth swallows his explanations and excuses and nods. He wonders just how bad he looks to entice this level of pity. Dean takes them to a fast food place a short drive from the arena and as they step through the doors, greeted by blaring music, sharp florescent lights and the hard bright plastic decor, Seth can’t help but think that this probably isn’t the kind of place he would choose on his own. The busy, cluttered menu above the counter makes his head hurt. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that he hasn't eaten a bite since the hospital. The overpowering smell of grease makes him queasy.

"I'm gonna get the biggest cheeseburger they've got," Dean says. "You?"

"Just a coke." Seth's lips feels dry and chapped. He licks them, shifting his weight around. Standing up hurts. "I'm not hungry."

"Uh huh." The look Dean gives him is decidedly unimpressed. "Find a seat. I'll order for us."

Seth's not surprised, exactly, when Dean joins him with enough food for a football team. Two cheeseburgers, two large fries, onion rings, a salad, two cokes, one large, one small, and a can of mineral water, pomegranate flavoured. He sits down and starts splitting the food between them with the ease of a blackjack croupier.

"This-" Dean indicates the burger and fries, "-is for the headache. Two bites minimum. Down the coke. And this-" he taps the plastic salad container with the little fork that came along, "-is the kind of crap you'd normally order in a place like this. Whatever you can't finish, we'll take with us."

"And the water?"

"After the coke, or you'll be pissy about having the taste of sugar stuck in your mouth." Dean's already unwrapping his burger. The groan he makes at the first bite is downright obscene. Seth doesn't think he'll be able to eat, but as soon as the melted cheese hits his tongue the queasiness gives way to a ravenous hunger. He consumes the burger in two seconds flat, then reaches for the fries. 

Dean's grinning at him, the unspoken _I told you so_ written all over his face.

"It's good," Seth admits. "Thank you."

"Yeah, I'm never going to get used to that. All thank yous and please and mother-may-I. It's weird.”

”What, I’m supposed to be a dick?”

”You’re supposed to be an entitled, arrogant scumbag. I didn’t think the word thanks was in your vocabulary.” 

Seth thinks of chairs, cold steel and black plastic, of tactical gear and a steady hand at the back of his neck and takes a sip of his sickly sweet coke. ”Well, fuck you too, asshole."

Dean flashes him that dimpled smile again, the one that makes Seth feel a little like he’s lost his footing. "Now that's the Seth we all know and love."

It makes him feel like a traitor two times over, but he can't bring himself to tell Dean what he remembered. With no memories, he can be someone Dean smiles at, because this version of Seth never hurt him. With no memories, there is no betrayal, nothing to atone for. It's just them, and he wants it too much to give it up. 

Dean was right about the water, to wash away the sticky sugar coating the inside of his mouth. Right about the headache too. Seth picks at his salad, the hunger already sated, and thinks about what it means that Dean knows him well enough to choose his food and to boss him around. He stabs an olive with the small plastic fork and sticks it in his mouth. ”Hey, did you know I have a dog?

Dean finishes the last of his fries and licks the salt from his fingers. ”Kevin, right? Yappy little thing, just like you.”

Seth scoffs. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

Dean swirls his coke around and grins at Seth over the rim of the cup. "God's honest truth. You should see yourself in the ring, facing off against some bigger guy. All bark, no bite, always running off with the tail between your legs when they call your bluff."

Much as he wants to, it's hard to argue what he can't remember. It's hard to get offended too, given how happy Dean looks, like giving Seth crap is his favorite thing in the world. God, it must have hurt to be around Dean and feel like this all the time. This constant pull, the reckless desire to reach out, to touch, to trace the line of his jaw and capture his lower lip between his teeth. Share the same car, the same room, the same gym, getting dressed and undressed together, always wanting just that little bit more.

Did Stephanie and Hunter feel like solace after this, their approval a fair substitute for what he wanted and couldn’t get with Dean? 

"So what are you gonna do now?"

Suddenly done with the meal, Seth drops the fork in the container and closes the lid. He wipes his mouth and his fingers, the weight of having to choose settling on him like a thousand pounds. "Hunter said go home. So I guess that. Once I've figured out where home is."

For a long while, Dean just looks at him, another of those long, unreadable gazes that make Seth feel like he’s being dissected. Then he digs up his smartphone. ”You shop at Amazon, right?”

Seth pushes the food away and leans over the table to watch as Dean goes to amazon.com, clicks on _Sign in_ , and types in Seth’s e-mail address and a password.

”Ha,” Seth says when the password’s denied. ”I knew I wasn’t that easy.”

Ignoring him, Dean clicks on _Forgot your password?_ , enters Seth’s e-mail address, opts to create a new password, and then logs into Seth’s e-mail without hesitation to retrieve the verification code needed to change it. It’s all so fast that Seth just stares, dumbfounded.

”Did you just change my Amazon password to _dickhead_?”

”Figured we’d better make it something even you could remember.” Dean goes back to Amazon, logs in and pulls up Seth’s address on the screen. He slides the phone over to Seth. ”This is you. Want to write it down?"

Seth looks between Dean and the phone. ”I honestly don’t know whether I’m more creeped out or impressed.”

"Told you I could get into your e-mail if I wanted to." Dean sounds just a little smug. ”Seriously, though. Change your damn passwords before someone more evil than me hacks all your accounts. You don't want any more dick pics on Twitter.”

That’s a disconcerting comment, and Seth’s not sure he wants to know. He scribbles down the address in his calendar, wishing he could remember what the place looks like, where the nearest airport is, if he’s got a car in long term parking or usually takes a cab or-

”Hey, you all right?”

”What?” Seth looks up, blinks. ”No, yeah, I’m fine.” He hands back Dean’s phone, closes his calendar. ”Thank you.”

Dean gives him that considering look again, like he’s trying to decide whether or not to say what’s on his mind. He huffs out a breath and shakes his head, reaching for his jacket. ”Want a ride?”

”What, home?”

Seth means it as a joke, but Dean just shrugs.

”Yeah. It’s, what, six hours? We’ll get a room tonight, do the drive tomorrow. You’re in no condition to be behind the wheel anyway.”

It's crazy. Dean has better things to do with this days off than to play chauffeur, but Seth still feels hope flare in his chest, bright and irresponsible. He tries to think about it, or at least look like he’s thinking about it, but the temptation of being with Dean and getting to put up dealing with the vast nothingness of his life and the blank spaces in his head for another couple of days is too great.

”Yeah, I’d like that.”

Dean looks almost as surprised by Seth’s answer as Seth was by the offer.

”I mean, if you’re sure?” Seth hurries to add. ”I don’t want to be a hassle or- hell, you’ve probably got plans already-”

”Nah. Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it. I was gonna go home, do some laundry, repack my bags. Nothing I can’t do at your place. Give me a couch to crash on, and I’ll consider it a fair trade.”

 

Sharing a hotel room with Dean is easy, like they’ve done it a thousand times before. Which, realistically, they probably have, even if only one of them can remember. It’s not that Dean’s a considerate roommate. He kicks off his shoes in the middle of the hallway, drops his bag right where he stands, tosses his jacket and car keys on the table and sprawls over the double bed with a satisfied groan, like his head hitting the pillows is the best thing he’s felt all day.

Seth kicks aside Dean’s shoes, moves his bag to stand against the wall, hangs his jacket across the back of the chair, scoops up the car keys that fell on the floor and slips them into Dean’s pocket, then smacks Dean across the head when he rolls his eyes and calls Seth ”mom”.

”I’m going to bed,” Seth says. ”You can move or I can fall asleep on top of you. Your choice.”

When he comes back from the bathroom, teeth brushed and ready for bed, Dean has changed into sweatpants and a washed-out t-shirt. He's moved to the right side of the bed, away from the door, and is leaning against the headboard, one leg pulled up, a thick paperback cracked open in his hands. His choice of side is familiar and stirs a vague memory, something about the Mothman and who gets eaten first, and it's weird enough that it can't be Seth's imagination. 

"Wouldn't the Mothman come through the window?"

Dean stops halfway through turning a page and stares at Seth. "What."

"He has wings, right? Why would he walk through the hallway and knock on the door when he could-"

"You forget your damn dog but you remember the Mothman?" Dean dog-ears his page and closes the book. "Fine. You take the window side."

"That wasn't-"

"You're the idiot who had to go and say his name. You practically summoned the bastard. He can feast on your eyeballs, see if I care." Dean scoots over, turning on the bedside lamp and picking up his book again. Seth's fairly certain the Mothman doesn't eat eyeballs. It's a strange thing to be sure of and he suspects that Dean is at least ninety percent guilty of planting that useless bit of trivia in his mind to begin with.

”Weirdo,” he mutters, climbing into the already warm bed.

"Jackass," Dean retorts, flipping him off without looking.

Seth dozes off to the sound of Dean slowly turning the pages beside him. Only to wake up in pitch darkness with a strangled scream, trapped and suffocating. He claws at the hands choking him, kicking to get free from the weight over his legs. His elbow crashes into the bedside table and pain shoots up the arm. In the split second when he realizes where he is he’s already falling, tumbling to the floor with his legs all tangled up in the blankets. The dream is slipping away from him but the terror lingers, breath coming harsh and shallow as he struggles to free himself. 

Someone grabs his shoulder. He flinches. Takes a swing. His fist connects with the loud smack of flesh against flesh before Dean’s ”ow, fuck!” brings him fully back to reality.

”Oh god. I’m sorry.”

”You’re fucking lucky you’re injured,” Dean grumbles as he turns on the bedside lamp.

Seth squints against the sharp light. A wave of nausea rolls through him and he barely makes it to the bathroom. He doesn’t realize Dean’s followed until gentle hands pull back his hair from his face and rubs the back of his neck. This isn’t how he wants Dean to see him, but every breath he draws to speak comes out again in a helpless, keening sob. He leans forward, sucking in air in shaky gasps, the porcelain cool against his forehead.

”Hey, shh,” Dean murmurs, fingers warm and steady. ”It’s all right, just let it happen. You’ll feel better.”

They return to bed afterwards, lights turned off. Seth downs two painkillers with a sip of water and lies back, eyes closed, breathing shallowly as he fights to keep the pills down. Dean’s fingers are running through his hair, over and over, spreading it over the pillow like a halo around his head. It’s quiet. Even with the blankets pulled up to his chin Seth is trembling.

”I’m not always this pathetic, am I?” He keeps his eyes closed, even though it’s dark enough that he probably wouldn’t be able to see anything more than Dean’s silhouette where he’s sitting, leaning against the headboard.

Dean’s laugh is almost soundless, just a huff of breath, fingers curling in Seth's hair. ”Nah. You're okay.”

 

The six-hour drive from Detroit to Davenport is quiet and uneventful. Seth feels like his body's punishing him for all his sins with crawling discomfort and low-grade nausea, headache, sore muscles and aching ribs. None of it will kill him, but all of it together kind of makes him wish it would. Dean, meanwhile, is in a weirdly good mood, humming along to the radio and giving Seth the occasional glance, more amused than concerned.

They checked out late, Dean going to the gym while Seth slept in, then grabbed something to eat before getting in the car. It’s late afternoon by the time they roll into Davenport. According to Dean, this is where he grew up, but Seth can’t see anything familiar, not until the GPS directs them into the suburbs, past an elementary school, and the recognition hits him so hard he’s reeling. He grabs the side of the door. ”I know this place."

”Yeah?” Dean glances at him. ”Good or bad?”

”That’s my - I went to school there. The window over there, that was my classroom. And there’s- pull over, stop the car.” He’s out before the wheels have stopped rolling, stumbling on the cracked sidewalk. The school is small, a red brick building, unchanged over the past twenty years, although the garish monkey bars and swing sets must be new.

Behind him, the car door slams. "You know, they're not usually fond of random men loitering outside of school property."

Seth stares at the open stretch of grass behind the old oak tree. "I know this. There used to be a jungle gym there, me and Marek, we'd climb it, do all sorts of crazy shit, practice moonsaults during recess. The teachers went nuts, called my m-” Seth breaks off and reaches out blindly, grabbing Dean’s arm. ”Dean. I remember my mom. She was so mad. Grounded me, made me swear to never do anything like that ever again. Then she put me in wrestling school.” He laughs, then swallows against a sudden surge of emotion, voice turning rough. ”Said that if she couldn’t stop me, she’d at least make sure I knew how to do it right.”

”Good for you, man." Dean pulls his arm free and there’s something off in his voice. "Guess it's all coming back, huh?"

"I mean, this place, yeah, and my mom and dad and brother and- shit, I've got a brother." Seth laughs, then breaks off at Dean’s pained expression. Just like that, the elation fades, leaving room for something a lot more conflicted. Because if the amnesia is the only thing keeping Dean with him… He’s almost relieved to realize that large swathes of his life is still gone. He remembers his childhood, his family, his parents house, but he doesn’t know if he ever went to college or when he left Davenport or how he started wrestling professionally. He doesn’t remember meeting Dean. He still doesn’t know why he broke up the Shield.

”We should probably get going. My place can’t be far now."

”You don’t know?” Dean says, skeptical.

Seth shakes his head. ”Too recent. I don’t even remember my high school.”

It’s a nice house. The only thing that indicates that it belongs to him is that the keys fit in the lock. Dean tosses his bag in what must be the guest room and heads for the bathroom like he knows where it is, but Seth feels like a burglar as he moves from room to room, unable to shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong here, that the real Seth’s going to show up and call the cops on him. He already feels like he’s stolen someone else's body, and now he’s busy stealing the man’s house.

Nothing about the place feels like home. There are two bedrooms, a small kitchen that gets the sunlight in the morning, a living room with a couch, a large, wall-mounted tv, a stereo and speakers and and an enormous CD collection. In the bookshelf there are more video games and wrestling DVDs than books. There are no potted plants, which makes sense, given how little time he probably spends here. His mail is in a neat pile on the kitchen counter, so someone's clearly looking after the place in his absence. There’s some dog toys in a box on the floor in the living room, a leash hanging on the coat rack by the door, and a large bag of dog food in the kitchen, on top of the refrigerator. It’s all very neat. It even smells clean.

He’s still standing there, staring at the countless plastic cases, when Dean emerges from the bathroom. ”Ring any bells?”

Seth shakes his head and Dean throws himself on the couch. ”So, you wanna pick up your dog tonight or tomorrow? Also, I bet your refrigerator’s empty and I’m starving. Takeout?”

Kevin is probably at his parents’ place and Seth's not sure he's up to that. What if he’s disappointed them? What if he shows up at their doorsteps and it turns out they’re not talking? They never called him after he got beaten up on live television. Do they not watch him? Or do they feel - like Dean, like Roman, like just about everyone else - that he had it coming?

”Takeout’s fine.” 

They spend the evening playing video games. Seth defeats Dean at three different fighting games and Dean retaliates by absolutely destroying Seth at Mario Kart. 

”How the fuck,” Seth says grimly, eyes locked on the screen as he tries to get close enough to Dean’s stupid car to hit him with a green shell- ”are you so good at _this_ game when you suck at everything else?”

Dean laughs. ”We might have played it before."

”We, as in…?”

”You, me, Rome. You invited us over. Early Shield days, some teambuilding thing. There was vodka involved.” 

Seth pauses the game and turns to Dean. ”You’ve been here before?”

”Well, yeah.” Dean shrugs and sets aside his controller. He grabs his beer from the table, cracking it open and taking a sip. ”Been a couple of years, though. Wouldn’t have found my way here without the GPS. You’ve been to my place too."

That explains why Dean seems to find his way around Seth’s house better than Seth does. He runs his thumb along the curved side of the controller, thinking. ”And Roman's?”

”Sure. We did Thanksgiving over there one year. Met his whole family. Wife, kid, parents, uncles, gradmas, an endless line of cousins and nephews and nieces.” Dean leans back and gives Seth an inscrutable look. ”The kid adored you. You taught her headlocks to use on her dad and Roman told you he’d teach all your kids how to spear you.”

He tries to imagine it, an alternate universe where Roman Reigns actually likes him, where none of the bad things have happened, and he’s trusted around people’s children like he’s somebody trustworthy. Somebody decent. "Do I want kids?"

"Who the hell knows? I'd have said so, yeah. You're great with them. But I'd also have said you'd never stab your brothers in the back.” Dean stretches his legs and places his feet on the table, looking at Seth like he’s daring him to object. He probably should, but he can’t find his voice. Dean tosses his controller to Seth. ”This is getting boring. Let’s watch a movie instead."

 

The next day is strange only because it’s not. Dean goes for a run early in the morning while Seth seethes with envy and practices lifting his arms above his head exactly the way the doctor told him not to, just to see how much it hurts. They have breakfast that gradually turns into lunch. Dean does laundry. Seth bites the bullet and visits his parents, and Dean refuses to come along.

”We didn’t exactly part on good terms,” he says when Seth insists. ”I’m probably the last person they want under their roof.”

”I thought I was the bad guy in our breakup.”

Dean looks at him like he’s stupid. ”Yeah, like your parents are gonna see it like that. They love you, idiot. Go home, have fun. I’ve got some errands to run anyway." 

It’s not as awkward as Seth feared, visiting his parents. They don't know about the amnesia and he can’t bring himself to tell them, not with the way his mom fusses about the bruises and his dad looks weary and resigned when he mentions the ribs. They give him a hard time for not answering his phone and making them worry and then turn around and forgive him faster than he deserves. It turns out that a childhood worth of memories and habits is all it takes to fake the rest. Maybe it’s common to regress to your teenaged self when you’re back with your parents in your childhood home. Seth wouldn’t know, but he’s glad Dean’s not there to see it. In the afternoon he leaves with Kevin in his arms and a promise to be back on Friday, when Brandon and his girlfriend Ashley are coming for dinner. 

Back at his place, Dean is doing yoga in living room. He's dressed in gym shorts and nothing else, barefooted, skin glistening with sweat. He’s beautiful. It shouldn’t come as a surprise by now, but it still does: the flex of his muscles as he pushes up from the floor, his strong calves, the line of his back, the curve of his ass. He flows through the stances like water, his breathing deep and rhythmic and in sync with his movements. There's a grace to him that Seth would never have expected of a brawler, and of some reason his gaze is drawn to the nape of Dean's neck and the way his hair curls there, damp with sweat.

Kevin squirms in his lap. As Seth sets him down he runs over to Dean, barking happily, claws making a rapid pat-pat-pat against the hardwood floor. Dean lowers himself to the floor in a slow, controlled push-up, then rolls over to his back and scoops up the dog, laughing as Kevin tries to cover his face and throat in sloppy wet kisses. ”Hey there, buddy. Yeah, I’ve missed you too. Too bad you’re daddy’s a dickhead, huh? Or we could have been hanging out all this time. Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? Gotta be you, cause it sure as hell ain’t him.”

The afternoon sun shines in through the window, falling over Dean’s face and arms and chest like melted gold. Kevin is basking in the attention, tail wagging.

”Traitor,” Seth grumbles. "See if I let you sleep in my bed tonight.” 

Dean sits up and brings Kevin with him, brushing the sweat-soaked hair back from his eyes. ”Me or the dog?” His voice is rough with exertion and the images it calls up makes the room feel instantly warmer. Seth takes Kevin back, feeling a jolt as their fingers brush together. 

”You’re both in the doghouse, far as I’m concerned.”

Dean gets to his feet. ”You need me to woo you? Pretty flowers for a pretty princess? Maybe buy you dinner?”

”Are you flirting with me, Ambrose?”

Dean laughs. ”Only if it makes you uncomfortable.” He blows Seth a kiss as he walks past. ”I’ll be in the shower.”

It’s not an invitation, but it sounds like one, and as Seth returns to the kitchen to get started on dinner that’s all he can think of. Digging through the cabinets for something to make a meal of, he wonders if Dean jerks off. It’s easy to picture him leaning back against the cool tiles in a cloud of steam, hot water streaming over his chest, head laid back, eyes closed, one hand around his dick, the other running over his abs, teasing his nipples, maybe even covering his mouth to muffle the sound he makes when he comes.

When Dean comes out, hair dripping wet, towel slung low around his waist, Seth is still standing there, staring into the open cupboard. Dean takes one look at him and snorts, like he knows exactly where Seth’s mind has been. ”Pizza?”

”Yeah.” Seth sighs. ”I’ll make the call.”

Once he hangs up the phone, Dean nudges his shoulder. ”Here, I got you something.” It’s black a plastic bag that he shoves into Seth’s hands. ”It’s a phone to replace the one you broke.”

”You didn’t have to-” Seth pulls out the package. It’s a new iPhone and he can tell just from looking at the box that it wasn’t cheap. ”No, Dean, I can’t. It’s too much. You’ve got to-”

”Don’t worry about it. You can pay me back later if it really bugs you.” He jumps up to sit on the counter, skin still radiating heat from the shower, and Seth is distracted for a moment by how good he smells. ”I thought about getting you an Android and then setting it up all wrong so it would drive you nuts when you remember what you like, but apparently I’m getting soft.” He watches as Seth opens the box and takes out the phone, turning it over in this hands. ”There’s no SIM-card. I figured you’ll probably want to keep your old number, so you’ll have to call your service provider and have them send you a new one. But get the wifi set up and you can get online at least. Check your e-mail and stuff.”

It strikes him again what an unfair advantage Dean has, knowing all about himself and all about Seth, while Seth is still trying to solve them both like the plot of a mystery novel. He turns on the phone and swipes to get past the welcoming message, then gets stuck. There’s a million choices and he doesn’t know what the real Seth would want, how to set up the phone to make it right. When he glances up, Dean is watching him.

”What?”

He didn’t mean to snap, and Dean looks hurt. ”If you really don’t want it-”

As Dean makes a grab for the phone, Seth pulls it back out of his reach. ”No, it’s great. Hands off.” He hesitates, thinks of lying and decides not to. ”You ever get the feeling that you might have lost your mind a little?”

Dean laughs, and yeah, that’s probably all the response that question deserves. 

”I have this persistent feeling that none of this is real. You know? That I’m stuck in this body that isn’t mine, living on borrowed time, and the moment the real Seth comes back I’ll be gone. I remember so little, and half of it seems to be things I made up and I can’t tell what’s what. The only thing that makes absolute sense is wrestling, and I’m not even allowed to train.”

”You remember your family.”

”From my childhood.” Seth turns over the phone in his hands. ”I have no idea how to interact with them as an adult. What do we talk about? I’m afraid to open my mouth because I don’t know my own opinions on anything. Half of the time you look at me like I’m crazy, and if I keep fucking up with you, how am I going to convince anyone that I am who I say I am?”

”Seth. You don’t gotta-” Dean breaks off and shakes his head. ”Look. I hate to be the voice of reason here, but speaking as someone with a head full of actual crazy, you’re making this more difficult than it is. There's no real Seth waiting to take his life back. There’s just you.”

”What if…” Seth takes a deep breath. His heart is pounding so hard that he’s sure Dean can hear it. ”What if I don’t like the person I’m supposed to be?”

Dean shrugs. ”I guess you try to become someone else.”

He makes it sound so simple, but Seth can’t shake the memory of Hunter’s hand around his neck and the look of betrayal on Dean’s face. How can something feel so good and so horrible at the same time? So right, and so gut-wrenching wrong? He hurt Roman, hurt Dean, made Hunter proud. The last is worth very little here, in Davenport, Iowa, weeks and weeks away from the ring, but he remembers the warm glow of being chosen and elevated above the rest, the way he seemed to grow solid and real under Hunter’s possessive touch.

”Yeah,” Seth says. ”I guess.”

They eat their pizza in front of the tv, watching some movie Seth forgets the minute he looks away. Dean's dressed now, thankfully, but Seth can’t stop sneaking little glances over at him. They’re side by side on the couch with Kevin curled up between them like he’s guarding their virtue, and it’d be funny if it weren’t so close to the truth. 

Seth feels every passing minute like sand through an hourglass where the time is quickly running out. Dean’s got a house show tomorrow and no reason to come back here again. It’s horrible to imagine the place without him, too much space and not enough people to fill it. Four weeks is a long time. Dean will go back to Roman, who hates Seth, and his stomach twists at the thought of what Roman will be able to convince Dean of in his absence.

Halfway through the movie, Dean gets up to get another beer. ”You want anything?”

”Nah, I’m fine.” Seth hits pause and stares at the frozen screen as he listens to Dean rummaging through the fridge. When he gets up, it feels less like making a decision and more like giving in. Dean closes the door to the refrigerator, beer in hand, and raises his eyebrows as he sees Seth in the doorway.

”Changed your mind?”

Seth nods and closes the distance between them, heart racing. The mood shifts from light and casual to something else. Something more. Not trusting himself to go through with this if he hesitates, he hooks his fingers in the pockets of Dean's jeans and pulls him closer. Despite his obvious reservations, Dean lets himself be moved.

"I want you." Seth keeps his voice low, even though there's no one around to overhear. ”I don’t know if this is new. I don’t care. I want to kiss you until we're both breathless from it. I want to take the memories of things you say never happened and make it real. Make it matter."

Dean lets out a ragged breath. "You can’t say shit like that to me."

”I know I’m not making this up. There’s something between us. But if you don't want it, tell me, and I'll stop."

"You're not yourself." Dean is wavering. There's uncertainty in his voice, like he has a hard time remembering why he's holding out. He puts his beer down on the counter, places his hand against Seth’s chest like he doesn’t know whether to pull him away or return the touch. "You're going to get your memories back and you'll remember why you left."

"Or maybe I won’t. From the first moment I saw you all I've wanted to do is this." He kisses Dean, gentle and chaste, and Dean makes a pained sound. He grabs Seth's shoulders and pushes him back, gently but firmly.

"Don't. I can't."

Seth's fingertips slip out of Dean's front pockets, just a whisper of denim on skin. The space between them is as wide as an ocean. Seth swallows. Steps back.

”All right.” It’s not, not even a little, but he promised, didn’t he? The shame of rejection sits heavy in his gut and he needs to not be there anymore. ”I’m taking a shower."

When he comes out the living room is empty, the tv turned off, and the door to the guest room closed. For a moment, Seth is sure Dean has left, and at the sight of his leather jacket he sags in short-lived relief. There’s an anxious knot in his stomach as he rehearses his apologies, over and over and over, but the door to the guest room remains shut. Seth plays video games for almost two hours with Kevin in his lap but Dean doesn't come out, not even to brush his teeth or say goodnight. It’s near midnight when Seth finally gives up and goes to bed, the unsaid words like ash in his mouth.

Maybe Dean's right. Maybe whatever he’s feeling is temporary, gone the moment his memories return. Maybe he had a good reason for everything he did. Maybe he is exactly where he always wanted to be. Maybe leaving Roman and Dean behind and aligning himself with the Authority was the best decision he ever made.

Maybe.

Dean leaves early the next morning. Seth watches through the kitchen window as the car pulls out of the driveway, and thinks of steel chairs and kisses and the kind of things that might make a man betray everyone he loves just to get ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes two days to get a new SIM-card. His contacts are still gone, the symbolism of a new phone with nothing on it blatant to the point of irony. Seth takes a couple of snapshots of Kevin napping just to put some proof of life in the thing. He can’t get over that Dean gave him a phone. Half of the time he adores it, and half of the time his stomach twists just from looking at it. 

The first week home passes excruciatingly slowly. Nothing feels real. Alone with Kevin in the house, the walls loom over him, the restlessness driving up him the walls. He spends an afternoon resetting the passwords to every social media account he can think of and browsing through his profiles. Instagram is photos of Kevin, photos of food, of crossfit boxes around the world, cities, strangers, workout selfies, and one single heavily filtered snapshot of the Shield making their way to the ring. It’s taken from behind, him and Dean in the centre of the picture in their black riot gear, surrounded by fans and security and glowing lights. Roman is nowhere to be seen. Seth's eyes are drawn to the ring in the far right corner and the blurry wrestlers waiting there, bathed in red light, facing the camera with the ref behind them. The photo was taken over a year before he broke up the Shield, and he can’t stop staring at it. Did he know back then how he was going to end it?

On Monday night he watches Raw. They’re on the road to Wrestlemania and it feels like everything is happening too fast. Matches are being set up, alliances growing stronger, rivalries intensifying. Randy Orton does a taped interview with Michael Cole where he sits down, all smiles and faux congeniality, and explains why he did what he did. Dean was right, his eyes are splinters of ice, and Seth watches him talk and wonders how he ever trusted the man. If he ever did. He mutes the tv when they show the footage of the beating he took but doesn’t allow himself to look away.

He watches it again on Youtube four more times that evening. And several timed again on Tuesday until his body’s fear response is gone and all he feels is cold determination. Randy Orton wants a match against him at Wrestlemania? Fine. He will tear the man apart. 

Five days after Dean left, Seth comes home from dinner with his parents to a text from an unknown number.

**roman thinks I drink too much**

It’s ridiculous how happy those six words make him. He saves Dean’s number before answering.

**Well, do you?**

**nah**

**he’s just in dad mode**

**thinks your bad for me too**

His first take is that Dean disagrees, that this is them bonding over how ridiculously overprotective Roman is, and he’s about to answer when another interpretation occurs to him.

**Is he wrong?**

**what is this, talking in questions day?**

**idk. you tell me.**

Seth thinks Dean might be bad for him, with the neck-breaking yo-yo effect he has on Seth’s emotions, but as far as his influence over Dean goes he can’t even hazard a guess. Kevin’s begging by the door, so Seth clips the leash on him and takes him out, mulling it over. When they come back in the text is still there, staring at him.

**idk. you tell me.**

_I don’t mean to be_ , he types, then deletes it. _I'm not trying to hurt you_ , he tries, and deletes that too. Then he groans and tosses aside the phone, leaving the text unanswered.

Over the next couple of days, Dean keeps texting him. It's very random. _Shrimp on pizza, yay or vile_ or _there's a frog staring at me_ or _the rental smells like spunk_.

Even as it makes Seth happy, it worries him that he can't tell how much that is Dean and how much is him being lonely and desperate for conversation with anyone at all. Hunter and Stephanie keep their distance. He tells himself that a couple of weeks pass in the blink of an eye when you're as busy as they're bound to be and that they'd pick up if he called. With no way to reach them, he can't really test that theory. 

Two weeks into his medical leave someone from the production finally gets in touch to discuss his return and what kind of exams he needs to pass to get cleared to compete. They want him on the card two weeks before Mania, but on tv in a non-wrestling capacity before that. Apparently what Orton did to him is broadcasting gold and they want to milk it for all it's worth. It's shockingly cynical but Seth agrees without reservations. Anything, to get him out of this exile and back to where his real life is. 

Getting back to the gym is a victory in itself. It's sooner than the doctors would have liked and later than he wanted, which makes it a fair compromise. His ribs ache, especially when he lifts his arms above his head or breathe too deeply, and there are some moves that will probably hurt like a bitch in the ring, but it doesn't feel like injury, just pain. Pain he can deal with.

He and Dean has texted back and forth for days when Dean calls. Seth is surprised enough to stare at the phone before he picks up, halfway convinced it's a mistake.

"...yes?" he says, a little wary.

Dean's easy laugh warms him from within. "Yes? That's how you answer these days? What happened to Fuck off, Ambrose?"

"I think you've got me confused with some guy who hates you."

There's a moment of silence. "Yeah. Probably." Dean sounds wry. "So, what's up? You rehabbing? Climbing the walls yet?"

"Oh god," Seth groans. "I'm going crazy. Yesterday I cleaned the space behind the owen out of sheer boredom. My bathtub is sparkling. I've changed the sheets four times since coming home."

Dean snickers, and belatedly Seth realizes what he implied. 

"Jesus, Dean, not - I just meant-"

Dean laughs and for one reckless moment Seth thinks he doesn't need anything else if he can just make Dean laugh like that.

"Where are you?"

"On the way to Portland. We got a late start, so Roman's driving like a madman." Now that he knows what to listen to, it’s easy to make out the sound of the car in three background.

"Roman's there?"

"Yeah, you wanna say hi?"

"No, I'm-" Seth begins, but hears the phone being moved, followed by silence and Roman's gruff "hey."

"Hi," Seth manages and then can't think of anything else to say. Apparently, neither can Roman.

"All right, chatterboxes. Don't talk each other's ears off." Dean sounds amused as he takes back the phone. "You two really are the life of the party, huh?” Seth can practically hear Dean rolling his eyes at them. "So when you're coming back?"

”Des Moines. Not wrestling until Phoenix, though.

"Mom and dad finally remembered your existence, huh?"

"Pretty sure they never forgot." He doesn't want Dean to know that he's the only one who's bothered contacting him during his time off, because he'd make a thing out of it and it's not a thing. 

He changes the subject, not liking the way Dean's voice grows barbs and he feels himself getting defensive and resentful whenever the Authority comes up. They talk about Dean's day for a bit, the match he's got coming up, and when they hang up Seth feels better than he’s done in a while.

It's not a one-time thing, that phone call. Dean seems to like talking to him. On nights when the insomnia gets bad he calls, and Seth takes to sleeping with the phone in his hand not to miss it. He’ll take Dean’s voice, rough with sleep-deprivation, over rest any night of the week.

When the production gets in touch again to iron out the specifics of his return Seth is moments away from asking for Hunter’s number, but the words get stuck in his throat. It’s not that he thinks they might not give it to him, or that Hunter wouldn't want him calling. It's just, well. Hunter’s busy. There's no reason to disturb him just to say hi, and it’s not like Seth needs his attention or reassurance. He’ll be back on the road soon enough. Things are fine.

They are. 

He's sure of it.

 

”Sometimes I get the feeling that Hunter's only interested in me when I’m winning.”

It’s a grey Saturday afternoon, the heavy clouds hanging low over Davenport and snow mixed with rain hitting his window and running in tendrils over the glass. He’s been anxious all day, rattled and lonely, and when Dean called and asked what was up, the words just fell out of his mouth before he had a chance to consider.

There’s a stunned silence from the other end before Dean laughs. ”Jesus, Seth. You say stuff like that, and I gotta wonder. Did you always know? Or did you need a blow to the head just to figure out what everyone else saw from day one?”

”Does it matter?” Seth doesn't like the wary, defensive tone in his voice. 

”Course it matters. I mean, it’s the difference between you being a cold-hearted opportunist and a sad, deluded bastard. Pretty big deal, right?"

Dean's tone is cheerful, like it's just some gentle ribbing between friends, but Seth thinks he can hear something else underneath, an underlying tension betraying all the things they work so hard to pretend isn't there. It's been a pattern since they started talking. They're doing great and then the Authority comes up, or the briefcase, or choices the other Seth has made or something unpredictable and innocous that serves as a reminder, and an edge creeps into Dean's words and Seth loses his footing, just a little.

There’s a voice in the background, Roman probably, asking a question. Dean covers the receiver and says, voice muffled, ”Seth worries that daddy doesn't love him."

Seth closes his eyes and contemplates hanging up. He shouldn't have brought up Hunter, that was stupid. It's just that Dean's the only person he ever talks to, besides his parents, and in weak moments he tends to forget that whatever they have is heavily conditional. 

”What,” Dean says, when Seth stays silent. ”You thought they _liked_ you?"

Seth’s taken aback by the malice in Dean’s voice. There's a difference, he thinks, between being cruel out of thoughtlessness or in the heat of the moment, and being cruel on purpose, intending to hurt. He stares at the sleet falling against the window and is ashamed of his own surprise. Dean’s not his friend. He said it himself, back at the hospital, and it’s all on Seth that he chose not to hear it, chose to heed his heart instead of Dean’s words.

”Yeah,” Seth says hoarsely, and wonders if Dean knows that he’s not talking about just the Authority. "I did.”

In the background Roman says something, dry and sarcastic by the tone of it, and they both laugh. It hits him like a brick wall - what the hell is he doing here? Risking everything the other him has worked and sacrificed for on a wild goose chase, spurred on by nothing but a pathetic crush and a vague hope? They’re never going to be there for him. They don’t even _like_ him. He knew that, he just let himself forget, lonely and willing to get conned. Because it was easy and comforting. Because everything about Dean feels like home.

Just like that, he knows that he can't do this anymore. Not because of Dean's words, or the fact that he wants to hurt Seth, or even that he thinks that Seth deserves to be hurt. Hell, maybe he does. But it's a distraction, and it pulls his time and attention away from what he should be focusing on. Getting well. Getting back in the ring. Getting his life back.

It feels like heartbreak as he hangs up without a word. He blocks Dean's number before he can change his mind. He doesn’t need to know if Dean calls, or worse, if he doesn’t. He's too weak. Better to eliminate all temptation.

Over the next couple of days, Seth practically moves into the gym. In the beginning it’s just a distraction from his empty house and silent phone, but slowly it turns into a strategy, a plan. He pushes himself, sweat running down his face and back and dripping on the free weights as he crouches down to change them, and while he’s busy learning the limits of his body, he thinks.

It’s possible, maybe even probable, that all of Dean’s mixed signals and constant push and pull have been deliberate. It’s crueler and more calculated than anything he would have thought Dean capable of, but there’s a lot he doesn’t know. Why else would he have done it? Why would someone who hates him help him out like that, convince him to rely on him, make him dependent?

If there's no one he can be sure of he has to trust himself, work on the assumption that whatever choices he made before, he made for a good reason. That means no more Dean. No more phone calls. No more texts or speculations or fantasies. His former self was loyal to the Authority, so he will be too. His former self apparently didn’t need friends, so neither will he. And if Hunter and Steph only likes him when he’s earning his keep, well, that was probably the deal to begin with. Like Dean said. He did the math and liked the numbers. So he will remind the Authority why they chose him and at the same time, he’ll remind himself. He’ll become World Heavyweight Champion, and Dean and Roman will be nothing more than footnotes in the history books, losses cut along the way just like he always intended.

When he’s not in the gym, he tries to reconstruct his life to the best of his ability. He goes through his house, pleased to find he’s kept a journal and then disappointed by the scarce, scattered entries. There’s some notes from FCW and NXT but not a word from his Shield days. When his journal picks up again after he joined the Authority there's no mention of Roman or Dean. Almost as if they ceased to exist the moment he walked out on them.

When he’s discovered as much as he can from his house and his belongings, he turns to the work he’s done in the ring. He doesn’t have the time to sit through several years worth of matches on the Network, so he does it the quick and ugly way, pulls up Youtube in his browser and types in Seth Rollins in the search bar and takes it from there. Little by little, it comes together. Who he is. What he’s done. It’s strange to see it from the outside, just a random assortment of clips and matches with no memories attached, just that persistent, dizzying sense of déjà vu.

He watches himself betray the Shield and drive Dean’s head through cinderblocks. He watches some of their post-Shield matches, intense, electric and charged with raw, naked emotion. It’s not easy to tell from the outside, but he thinks that maybe the Seth he sees on the screen is not as over his former brothers as he would like to appear. He watches the Hell in a Cell-match he started back at Dean’s hotel room, before Dean shut off the iPad and took it out of his hands, and he thinks he knows why Dean interrupted it right when he did. It would have been harder to believe in Dean's good samaritan-act if he’d seen the lengths Dean’s willing to go just to hurt him.

Jesus. They’re all fucked up, aren’t they?

Even knowing he’s made the right call, he still misses Dean. It’s not so bad at the gym, with the pain of his ribs and his aching, trembling limbs and thoughts of wrestling and triumph and a title around his waist to distract him, but there’s only so many hours a day he can spend working out or playing with Kevin or talking to his parents, and the rest of the time it’s just him and the quiet phone and an ache so sharp it eclipses anything else.

He had it the wrong way around, he thinks. He’s not weak. Because if it hurts this much when it’s just leftover feelings from a different life, how goddamn strong did he have to be to walk away in the first place? He must have been so certain, because if there had been the slightest doubt in his mind he can’t see how he could have done it. 

The last week goes by at a crawl, like time itself holds a grudge against him. Seth books a rental and a hotel room, packs his bag and makes arrangements with his parents to look after Kevin while he’s gone. The headaches have faded, and while his ribs are still aching it's nothing like the way it was in the beginning. He’ll be cleared to compete. He knows he will.

It’s mid-morning and he’s in the middle of straightening up and mopping the kitchen floor when there’s an unexpected knock on the door. Kevin wakes up from his nap and darts over, all sharp barks and bad attitude.

”Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” Seth scoops up Kevin, shushes him, and opens the door.

It’s Roman Reigns. On his front porch. In Iowa. 

It makes no sense. Seth blinks and looks again, half-expecting him to be a mirage. Roman raises an expressive eyebrow. ”Gonna let us in?”

That’s when he sees Dean, lounging right behind, hair tousled, hands stuck in his pockets, chewing gum and looking everywhere except at Seth’s face. Kevin barks once, sharp and joyful, and tries to wriggle out of Seth’s arms. When Seth puts him down, he runs over to Dean who crouches down, his sullen face breaking up in a soft grin. ”Hey, buddy. Who’s a good boy?”

Seth has to look away.

He can’t slam the door in their faces, not when Kevin’s already in Dean’s arms like the world's most willing hostage. Inviting them in isn’t ideal, but having this conversation on the porch is even worse. He steps aside, lets them enter. It’s strange. Dean fits like he never left, sitting down on the mat to play with Kevin, while Roman looks around curiously, maybe comparing the place to what it looked like the last time he was here. There’s a presence to him that makes him hard to look at and hard to ignore. The shine probably wears off once you know him but Seth has never been more aware that he doesn’t. All he has is a smattering of outdated emotions and hours of watching him wrestle on TV. It feels, absurdly, like a celebrity just stepped into his living room and onto his freshly mopped floor. 

”So, what’s this?” Seth says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Roman shrugs. "We can't just pay an old friend a visit?"

"We're not friends."

"Ouch," Roman says, deadpan. "Harsh, man."

Dean glances up, and it's weird to see him this uncertain. "You stopped taking my calls."

"So you drove all the way here? Are you for real? It never occurred to you to take a hint?”

”You could be dead.” Dean’s voice is flat and he turns his attention back to Kevin who's belly up, begging to get rubbed. ”A couple of weeks ago Orton beat you bad enough to make you forget your own name, so excuse me if I get a bit anxious when you suddenly decide to drop off the face of the earth.”

”Bullshit.” Funny how Seth had been concerned that his resolve would crumble the minute he stood face to face with Dean again, but now that Dean’s here all he feels is anger. ”If you were really concerned, you’d have called Hunter days ago. So what’s so damn important that you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell me at work?”

Before that last phone call, back when Seth still deluded himself that he could have this, he sometimes laid awake at night, worrying about the way Dean would look at him once his memories returned, and he became _that_ Seth Rollins again. He imagined the easy, careless grin twisted into a sneer, kindness turning to loathing. He didn’t expect-- 

”You remember." Dean's face is pale, his voice ragged, like _he’s_ the one who’s lost something.

”Yeah, because that’s the only reason I could possibly decide to be done with this.” The tension in the room is making Kevin agitated. He doesn't know what's wrong, just that everyone's unhappy. Seth takes him back from Dean when he starts whining, ruffling his ears. "It's all right, Kev. I'm not mad at you. How about you go outside while we finish up here, hmm?" 

It's as much for him as it is for Kevin, an excuse to get out of there for a moment, get some fresh air and put his head on straight again. When he returns to the living room, Dean and Roman are talking in hushed voices. An argument, by the sound of it. They fall quiet the moment Seth enters the room. "Look. I think you should go."

"Seth," Dean says, "come on-"

"No. You need to make up your goddamn mind. You show me you care in a hundred little ways and then you turn around and spit me in the face. I _love_ you." His voice cracks at the word that was never supposed to be spoken like that, sharp and angry and wielded like a weapon. "I've tried to stop and I can't. You've got to stop showing up here, messing with my head. There's no happy ending here, all right? There is no way this can lead anywhere good. I’ve done my research, I know what I did, but I’m not going to go around apologizing for shit I don’t even remember. As far as I’m concerned, that guy? The one you’re here for? He doesn’t exist. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t, but right now it's just me. And right now, for me, the only thing that matters is the title. That’s it. That’s the only thing that makes sense and the only choice I know I won’t regret, and if the Authority can get me there, then the Authority’s where I’m at. So.” 

His heart is racing high in his throat. Roman looks shell-shocked at his outburst, and Dean. Seth blinks. Dean looks gutted.

"Time to hit the road,” Seth says into the dead silence that follows. And for all that Seth's the one kicking them out, he can't stand to watch them leave. He heads into the kitchen, busying himself with refilling Kevin's water and emptying the dishwasher, waiting for the slam of the car doors and the sound of a vehicle pulling out of the driveway.

"He loves you too, you know."

Seth whirls around. Roman's standing there in the doorway, face unreadable. 

”Always has. You think this is easy for him? You’re like a ghost from the past, a reminder of everything he had and lost. You think that’s not killing him, knowing that one of these days you’re going to remember yourself and this, whatever it is, will be over?”

"I'm not the one who keeps reaching out.” Seth nudges the closest cupboard open and stacks up the clean plates on the shelf. ”Why are you here? For real.”

”We came to offer you a ride.”

Seth scoffs. ”Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

”Because you don’t want to be around us, or because you want it too much?”

There is no way to respond to that without lying, and there’s already so little in Seth’s life that feels solid and real without him muddying the water further. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a breath, then turns around to face Roman. ”Why?”

Roman shrugs, but there’s nothing nonchalant about it. ”You fucked us over bad last time around. Burned it all to the ground and just walked away, no warnings, no explanations, no goodbyes. So give us this. One last ride. One last chance to spend some time with our baby brother before you remember you hate us. Call it masochism, call it closure, I don’t care. Give us the farewell we never got last time around."

Seth leans back against the counter, heart pounding in his throat. ”You talk as if I’m dying.”

”Aren’t you, though?"

Seth thinks of the real Seth Rollins. What he's done, what he's earned, who'll he be again when he remembers. He tries to imagine three hours in a car with the two of them, all it could cost him, every way it could go wrong. Roman's not wrong, exactly. Things will change when he gets his memories back. He will change. Possibly his feelings too. There is something tempting about the offer, a couple of more hours of make-believe. Then he can get back in the ring where he belongs, and he's almost certain that once he does, once he gets something tangible to fight for, then all of this murky confusion will fade and he'll be able to see clearly again. Focus on what matters. The briefcase. The contract. The title.

Not Dean. Never Dean.

What the hell does that even mean, ’he loves you too’? What is he supposed to do with that?

"And you agreed to that?" he asks. "After you've been trying to keep Dean away from me for weeks?"

Roman looks at him like he’s being an ass. ”You walked out on me too." That's probably the closest Roman will ever come to admitting that he cares. Seth wonders if that's supposed to feel like a victory.

They're asking for roughly two hours. Three, if the traffic's bad. He'd have to pay a cancellation fee for the rental, but he can take that. The real issue would be if Hunter or Stephanie found out. He's not certain where they stand on him spending time with his former brothers, but he's pretty sure fraternizing with the enemy's not encouraged. If he wakes up and remembers he hates them, as Roman put it, how used will he feel? How betrayed? It has to depend on why he started hating them in the first place.

Seth thinks of Dean's face when he said "I love you". He sighs and lets his shoulders fall. "All right, whatever. Just give me a couple of hours to get ready. And Roman - the Authority never finds out."

Roman rolls his eyes at Seth, as if he's being paranoid. "Like we'd wanna talk to them. We'll go grab a coffee or something. Just text us when you're ready to go."

Seth watches him leave, unsure if he's made the right choice. When he unblocks Dean's number and sends him a text three hours later, he's still not sure, but by then it's too late to back out. It's just for a couple of hours. What could go wrong?


	5. Chapter 5

_Petty_. 

As Seth takes his time hanging the last of the laundry, canceling his rental, dropping Kevin off at his parents and then playing Candy Crush for thirty minutes before texting Dean, he adds that trait to his internal tally. It’s not like he gains anything from making them wait, except it feels good. There are very few parts of his life that he's in control over right now. Exactly when and how he gets into that car might as well be one of them. 

Of course, when he planned it out, he’d assumed they’d be nearby and ready to go the moment he said the word. As it is, it takes them almost forty-five minutes to show up and when they finally do, Seth’s both hungry and bored out of his mind. 

As he locks up the house, Roman steps out of the car to help him with his bag. ”Dean’s called shotgun. You wanna drive or sit in the back?” 

Seth glances at the car, a black Toyota. ”Automatic?” 

”Yeah, like I’m letting you behind the wheel of a manual after last time.” Roman takes his bag and drops the keys in Seth’s hand without waiting for an answer. ”All yours.” 

Seth had expected a scowling, grudging welcome, and he blinks at Roman’s back as he heads for the trunk, hoisting the bag in. He closes his hand around the keys like a treasure. ”You know I don’t remember last time."  

Roman shakes his head and slams the trunk shut without answering.  

The scent of new car fills Seth's nostrils as he opens the door and gets inside. Dean's slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled up over his head. He’s chewing gum, hands hidden in his pockets. 

”Hiya,” he says, with a nod. 

Seth nods back, adjusts the seat and the mirrors, then turns to look at Roman over his shoulder as he climbs into the backseat. ”Seriously. What happened last time?” 

”Left turn, you forgot you were driving stick, nearly took the back of a blue Sedan.” Roman settles in the middle and buckles up. "Mom with kids. Could have been ugly.” 

”Yeah,” Dean says. "Like when you totalled the car five minutes after leaving the rental place.” 

”That was one time.” Roman speaks with the exasperated air of someone who’s had the same argument countless times before. Dean snorts. "One time! I’d been up for 48 hours, give me a break.” 

Seth turns the ignition and backs out of the driveway, his attention mostly on the mirrors. ”So we’re all shit behind the wheel, that’s what you’re saying?” 

”We’re all shit at a lot of things.” Coming from Dean, it sounds almost like an apology. 

They drive out of Davenport in silence. It feels very different from the last car ride with Dean, and not only because Roman’s right there in the backseat. There should be no shortage of things to talk about, but Seth doesn’t know where to start and they seem content to let the silence be.

Predictably, Seth’s the first one to crack. ”So how did we meet?” When Dean doesn’t answer, he throws a glance in the rearview mirror, trying to catch Roman’s gaze. "Indies? After?” Roman’s expression is all are you for real? and Seth rolls his eyes. ”Come on. You guys know everything about me, and all I know about you is what I’ve seen on tv. Help me out, here.”

Dean turns away, looking like it pains him. 

”Never did the whole indie scene,” Roman says with a studied nonchalance that makes Seth think that maybe he’s been given a hard time about that. ”You signed on a couple of months after me. It was a big deal. I hadn't kept up with Ring of Honor, but everybody was talking about it. Apparently they'd been trying to get you for a while. You thought you were too good for an developmental deal, so I guess we all expected some entitled bastard with a chip on his shoulder." 

”And?" 

Roman shrugs. "You were less of an ass than we expected. Really determined to make it to the main roster, but who isn’t? At least you seemed to want to do it the honest way. Never took a day off, never cut any corners.” He pauses, then adds, a little caustic: ”Saved that for when it really mattered, I guess.” 

So much for a warm, uncomplicated welcome. Seth tries not to wince as he remembers the feel of his fingers curled around the steel chair. his heart is doing crazy things inside his ribcage and he runs his hands along the wheel, careful not to look at either of them. ”Did I ever- I mean, do you know why I did it?”

He tries to keep his tone light, like he’s just making conversation, but he knows he’s failed when Dean pulls his hood back and looks at him. Just looks.

”Sorry,” Seth mutters. As an apology for betraying them, it’s woefully inadequate, but if he’s just apologizing for raising an awkward topic it just might be enough. 

”You’ve given reasons,” Roman says. ”Mostly bullshit. You lie a lot.”

Seth swallows thickly around the lump in his throat. ”Right.”

Another couple of miles pass in awkward silence, before he clear his throat and braves a glance at Dean. ”So how did we meet?" 

Dean shrugs, chewing on the frayed end of one of the strings to his hoodie. "FCW. I challenged you for your title." 

"Did you take it?" 

”Nah. Got distracted, then kicked out. Some time later you approached us about the Shield, and, well." Dean makes a gesture as if to say here we are, which is a slightly more abridged version than Seth would have wished for. He can practically hear another conversational gambit screech to a halt. He drums his fingers against the wheel, impatient.

”What are we doing here, guys?” Seth glances at Dean, then throws a look at Roman in the mirror. ”What’s the point?”

Dean mutters something under his breath, impossible to make out over the din of the car. Roman, infuriatingly enough, just looks at his phone as if he didn’t even hear the question. Seth’s about to ask again when he shifts and leans forward. "Hey, pull over."  

"Now?" Seth looks at the dashboard clock. "We're less than forty minutes away." 

"Need to make a phone call." 

"And you can't do that in the car? Or wait forty minutes?" 

"It's urgent.” Roman raises his phone as if to prove his point. "And private." 

Dean huffs an amused breath. And the thing is - Seth knows he's lying, Roman knows he knows, hell, even Dean knows that Seth knows. But they're not in a hurry and refusing would be an asshole move, especially since this little gambit is probably what the whole car ride has been leading up to anyway. 

Seth sighs. ”Fine. Rest stop coming up in a couple of miles, that ok?" 

"Perfect." Roman sits back and begins to type on his phone. "Thanks, Seth." 

"You didn't use to be this much of a pushover.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean giving him a look somewhere between suspicious and amused. "What gives?" 

Seth shrugs, not too eager to examine his motivations. Maybe he doesn’t want a fight. Maybe he’s spoiling for one. Maybe he’s curious. Maybe he's still trying to win their approval, fucked up as it is. Or maybe, just maybe, this is his last chance at some alone time with Dean, and he's not about to let that slip through his fingers no matter how blatant Roman's maneuvering.

As far as rest stops go, it's nothing fancy. Seth's family used to come here all the time when he was a kid and they needed a change of scenery. Ice cream for the kids, coffee for the adults, and playtime in the little jungle gym behind the service station. He's already parked when it occurs to him that he claimed the same spot his mom used to choose whenever it was free. It's strange how immediate and solid his childhood memories are, compared to the blankness that is everything afterwards. He doesn't know what the coffee here tastes like, but can vividly recall the sugary sweetness of ice cream melting in his mouth and him and Brandon fighting for first ride on the swing.

"All right, y'all, be back in ten,” Roman says and slams the car door behind him.

With the engine turned off, the car seems very quiet all of a sudden.  

"Did you want to get something from the shop?" Seth asks. 

"I'm good.” Dean gives him a wry look. "I've had enough coffee to last me a month." 

Seth's first impulse is to apologize for making them wait, but he swallows it down and glances at Dean, amber hair falling in his eyes, absently watching family making their way across the parking lot. 

Seth unbuckles his belt and shifts in his seat, stretching his arms until his ribs protest. He opens his mouth to speak and his pulse picks up, hands going clammy. Roman's _He loves you_ is rattling around in his head, and he wonders if Dean knows that he knows, if it makes any difference either way.  

"Dean, I-" he says, at the same time as Dean says: "You're not-" 

They both break off.

"You go first," Seth says. 

Dean turns his gaze back to the parking lot. "You're not wrong to expect people to like you. Probably healthier than the opposite. I shouldn't have made it into a joke." 

Seth shifts uncomfortably. "It's all right. I probably shouldn't have cut you off like that." 

”Nah, I get it." Dean shrugs. "You shouldn't put up with people treating you like crap. Even if it's me, and even if you kinda had it coming." He fiddles with the air vent, moving the little lever that controls the air flow back and forth. "You're not going to want to hear this, but let me say it once and I promise to never bring it up again." 

A thousand possibilities race through Seth’s mind, from _I’ll never forgive you_ to _Come back to us_ and everything in between, and he digs his fingers into his thigh and nods, mouth dry.

”You can’t trust the Authority.” 

Seth is surprised at the force of his own disappointment. ”Dean-” 

”Just hear me out. I know you like Hunter, or respect him or whatever, but I’ve been watching you ever since you turned on us. You’re not happy. And you're a worse wrestler now than you were before. It's like you're scared to use half of your move set, like you're making yourself smaller to fit their mold. You had all this fire and will and ambition, but they’re chipping away at it. They’re making you weak. They’re telling you you’re nothing without them, that you wouldn’t last a day without them at your back, they hand you easy wins then set you up to fail just to teach you that you need them to keep winning. It’s ugly. You need to step away from it.” 

”You don’t even know them.” 

”Don’t need to,” Dean says. ”I know you. And I know that whatever you’re playing in the ring, whatever you’re promising them behind closed doors, whatever you think you need to be to be on top - that’s not you. And the sooner you figure it out, the better, because they will chew you up and spit you out. They're not your friends and they're making you paranoid, unhappy, and ashamed." 

Seth looks down on his hands, feeling the blood rushing in his ears. He's angry and he's not sure why, defensive about choices he can't remember making and protective about people he doesn't know who haven't called him once during his rehab. "This isn't fair.” His head is buzzing, his own voice coming from very far away. ”You know I don't remember enough to refute anything you say." 

"That's not-" Dean pushes the hair back from his eyes, frustrated. "I don't want you to- Hell, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe everything's great, maybe you like how they treat you and they're giving you something we never could. What the hell do I know? Just think about it.” 

Dean sounds sincere, and it's terrifying that the only way Seth can manage to distrust Dean is if they're not talking. Because face to face with Dean or with his voice in his ear the water grows muddied and he forgets that they're supposed to be on opposing sides, presumably for a reason.  

He needs to play it safe. If push comes to shove, he'd rather be lied to and manipulated by Hunter and Stephanie than by Roman and Dean. Both would hurt, but only one would break his heart.  

”All right,” Seth says thickly.

”All right?”

”Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

Dean’s smile is small, unexpected, and so grateful that it makes Seth’s heart ache. It brings a light to his eyes, and the answering warmth that blooms in Seth’s chest is entirely out of proportion. 

When Roman returns, they’re back to staring quietly out through the window, but the silence between them is different. Not comfortable or peaceful by any means, but maybe just a little less tense.

Once they reach Des Moines, Seth stops at the first gas station he sees. 

"Out of gas?" Roman asks. Seth is impressed at how neutral he sounds given that the curiosity has to be killing him. 

"I'll take a cab from here. Dean's right, we shouldn't be seen riding together.” He unbuckles his belt and is out of the car before either of them can argue.  

Roman steps out and joins him behind the car. "Hey. Thanks." 

Seth laughs in surprise. "For what? The most uncomfortable ride ever?" 

"For coming.” Roman helps him with the bag and slams the trunk closed. "For hearing Dean out." 

"How do you even-? No, I don't want to know. That telepathy thing you guys do is creepy." Seth hesitates, awkward. His muscle memory is screaming at him to go in for a hug, but he barely knows Roman and he can’t tell if touching is still a thing they do. "Thanks for asking me, I guess. I’ll see you around." 

It feels like a lie, but Roman just nods. "Yeah, man. Take care." 

 

It’s weird to get back to work and be expected to step right into the shoes of Seth Rollins, the undisputed future of the business and the Authority’s number one champion. It’s a lot like being thrown in at the deep end, with several new relationships to navigate at once. All his memories of Hunter and Stephanie are those of an adolescent fan. How is he supposed to keep them from sensing that something's wrong, when everything about his life seems to chafe and he has no idea what he’s supposed to think or feel or want, beyond title shots and high profile matches? 

As it turns out, his worries are misplaced. It’s easy to be what they want him to be, because they tell him. He'd have expected that to grate, but it’s weirdly comforting. It’s something he never knew about himself and he suspects that Dean would never let him live it down if he could see just how easily Seth defaults to obedience. 

"You want me to say _what_?" 

They’re all backstage, getting ready for the show. Since it’s his first appearance after the injury, he’ll be opening Raw with a promo. It terrifies and thrills him in equal measure. What if his inexperience shows? What if he’ll bumble through his promo like an idiot, stumble over his words, fall flat on his face on his way down the ramp or get blinded by the lights and fail to locate the cameras? What if he uses the wrong voice with the wrong inflections? What if he’ll go out there and act nothing at all like the real Seth Rollins would? 

What if they’ll all stare at him the way they do now, incredulously, like he suddenly grew a second head?  

Kane rolls his eyes, and Stephanie places a hand on his arm and takes him a few steps aside. 

"Is something wrong, Seth?” she asks in an undertone, and he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to say yes. 

Again he adjusts, like he’s done a dozen times already since arriving at the arena. ”No, no. I just thought- Isn't a little hypocritical of me to speak of betrayal, after, you know..." Stephanie looks at him blankly and he wonders how far off script he's veering. "The Shield?" 

”Seth.” Stephanie sounds like he’s letting her down. "That's different. You can't betray someone who doesn't matter. Leaving the Shield was a sound business decision to secure your future. You _know_ that.” She seems surprised that she has to remind him and he makes a mental note of where he stands in regards to Dean and Roman: Business decision, check. No guilt, no regrets, no sins committed. Check. "You trusted Randy. You vouched for him, and he stalked you around the ring like an animal, mocked you while you were suffering. _That's_ betrayal. No one turns on the Authority. We're a family and he spat on that.” 

He nods, trying to look convinced. ”Of course.” 

Stephanie tilts her head. ”You know you can talk to me if there’s something you think I should know about. Even things you wouldn’t be comfortable going to Hunter with. If you’re having second thoughts about, well, anything really. I’m here for you. We’re a family, and we look after one another. You understand that, right?” 

Dean would swear she’s lying, but there is nothing insincere in her face or her voice, none of that usual core of steel he’s learning to associate her with. Maybe she means it. It’s nice to think that he might have someone in his corner. ”Yeah. Thank you." 

”Besides,” Stephanie says, raising her voice to include the rest of the group in the conversation, ”you’re not going out there alone. We’re all behind you." 

Hunter looks up from his phone call long enough to give Seth an encouraging nod. Seth smiles gratefully, trying to ignore the way his stomach is churning at the kind of lies they want him to tell in front of a sold out arena. But if he can’t exactly make himself believe it, he can damn well sell it like he does. 

The crowd hates him. He knew that, of course, he’s watched enough of his own matches to get up to date, but he’s still taken aback by the strength of it. It’s one thing to see on the screen and another to be right in the middle of. The lights glare, sharp and bright and hot, and the shirt is sticking to his back underneath the black suit. He wishes Hunter hadn’t insisted he’d wear a tie. He can’t wrestle in this, and he feels very much under attack as he breathes in the scent of sweat, wood, canvas and rope and raises the mike. 

As it turns out, talking is easy. That only makes it worse. Despite the adrenaline surging through him and the erratic pounding of his heart, his voice remains steady as he parrots back Stephanie’s words almost verbatim, telling the crowd that none of them knows what betrayal feels like, because to be betrayed, you have to be somebody who matters. And they don't. Roman and Dean never did. He does, and at Wrestlemania he's going to prove to them and to Orton exactly how much.  

It's bullshit, all of it, and with every word he's proving that none of the things he said during his weeks off meant anything. Does the real Seth believe this? Or is he faking it too? He feels like a bold-faced liar and a fraud, and he gets through it by clinging to the hope that the other Seth has a plan and an endgame, something brilliant and worthwhile, something that transcends Hunter's approval and his own loneliness and abject fear of failure.  

Back in gorilla, he's rewarded by smiles and high fives, a kiss on the cheek from Stephanie and Hunter's arm across his shoulders, and it's almost worth it until he catches Dean's steady gaze from across the room and the guilt blooms in his gut, squirming and twisting like a pit of snakes. He looks away, pretends not to see, but he can feel Dean's gaze burn against his face long after he's finally made his escape.  

That night he sends two identical text messages. 

**I'm sorry. They told me what to say. That was shitty, I didn't mean it.**

He gets no answer. He figures he deserves their silent treatment. It's just as well. A bullshit promo is hardly the worst thing he'll have to do to keep the Authority on his side and himself firmly in the top spot. 

 

”Some time off has really improved your attitude,” Hunter tells him next morning in the car on the way to the airport. He's flying down to Orlando for a couple of days at the Performance Center, working off the ring rost and getting cleared to compete, and Hunter's got an exec meeting and new talent to evaluate. 

Hunter's compliments often fall right in the maddening spot between patronizing and genuine, leaving Seth pleased, annoyed, and weirdly vaguely aroused. He doesn't know what it is about that gentle condescension that gets to him, makes him want to simultaneously snap back and duck his head and try harder, be better, earn more of it. 

Does Hunter know? Can he tell the way Seth's breath catches, his heart rate spikes? That's a horrifying thought. He doesn't remember his interactions with Dean or even Roman being this fraught and loaded with unresolved tension. 

"I had some time to think, I guess. Figure out what's important."  

”Good,” Hunter says, and Seth fights against the pleased smile that tugs at his lips. "Keep this up and you'll have that championship in no time." 

At the Performance Center Seth has the opportunity to work out who he’s supposed to be among people who know him without knowing him well. It helps, but not as much as being back in the ring does. He feels settled in his skin again, focused and certain, and when he flies in for the next Raw he feels invulnerable, certain that nothing will be able to shake him. 

He’s wrong. 

His first match back isn't a singles match, but a three-on-one handicap match against Randy Orton. It’s no surprise that it’s Randy - even though Seth had hoped otherwise - but he doesn’t like that he’s supposed to go out there like a coward, with backup, like he’s too weak and too scared to fight his own battles. He could have sworn it went against everything he believed in, but then again, what does he know about his own beliefs?  

He did the same thing with the Shield, didn’t he? Relied on them. Why does this feel worse? 

Seth spends a fruitless afternoon trying to reason with Hunter and Stephanie, but for all that he’s getting to know them, he can’t remember what kind of arguments they respond to. Is demanding better than pleading? Is asking nicely the way to go? Should he insist on a show of strength, fall back on strategy, play up what it would mean for the Authority if he came out looking like a goddamn hero for once? 

He tries all of it and the only thing he learns is that they will let him push, but only so far.

”That’s enough, Seth,” Hunter says, sharp enough that Seth flinches. As soon as he senses Seth's surrender, his tone softens. ”We know you can take him. It’s not about that. Randy needs to see what happens when you turn your back on the Authority. There was nothing fair about what he did to you, why should he expect a fair fight in return?” 

”It’s just that it’s my first match back,” Seth says. ”I want it to matter.” 

Hunter looks at him like he’s being ridiculous. ”It’s just Raw. With Wrestlemania this close around the corner - trust me, kid, nothing that happens tonight will matter in the long run. You go out there, you let Joey and Jamie take most of the bumps, and you focus on doing as much damage as you can. Stay off the top rope. No suicide dives. Go for the knees. He can’t RKO you if he can’t stand.” 

That’s not how Seth wants to play this, but the finality in Hunter’s voice leaves no room for objections. He can tell he’s already stretching their patience thin. Reluctantly, Seth nods. ”I should get a last workout in before the show.” 

Hunter nods and dismisses him with a wave, and as he stalks out of the little conference room he can’t stop thinking about what Dean said, about making himself smaller to fit their mold. Is that what this is? Is that what’s bothering him?  

All through the day he’s been fighting the feeling that Hunter and Stephanie doesn’t really see him as much as they see the person they want him to be. That maybe he’s every bit as lonely and invisible here as he was at home, cut off from the whole thing.

It explains a lot. All the times Seth-on-the-screen rebelled, acted out, started fights that made no sense, made enemies he had no business making. The sharp turns between doing exactly what Hunter wanted, basking in his addictive approval, and being an obnoxious little shit dead set on alienating everyone around him.

What if the real Seth has no plan? What if joining the Authority was all there ever was, and now it’s just a scramble to keep Hunter and Stephanie happy and hang on to the briefcase until he can cash it in for a title opportunity, and then—

Then what?

Does the real Seth know that once you reach the top, there’s nowhere to go but down?


	6. Chapter 6

When Seth’s music hits, he feels it in his chest, more vibration than sound, and he starts forward automatically before Jamie's hand shoots out and grabs his wrist. 

"Wait for it." 

Seth flushes. He's too keyed up, nervous enough to be terrified and so excited he's practically vibrating with it. He's waited for weeks. It doesn't even matter that the man he's facing is Randy Orton, who cost him all his memories and nearly ended his career. Even from his position in Gorilla he can feel the crowd like a storm brewing, a heavy pressure behind the curtain, and he can't tell from the noise if they're with or against him but it doesn't matter. Their energy is everything he's ever wanted and he doesn't think he'd be able to follow Hunter's instructions even if he wanted to.

There's a beat of silence, like an indrawn breath. Jamie nods at him. He takes a split second to steady himself and adjust his grip on the briefcase before he walks out. 

The boos are staggering. It breaks his heart, a little. He shouldn't care. The real Seth doesn't seem to, but then how would he know? They're both skilled at showing only what they want the crowd to see. He pauses at the top of the ramp and raises the briefcase over his head while he takes it all in. The flare of the lights, the sea of faces, screaming, clapping, cheering, booing. He sees glimpses of his own merch in the crowd and it grounds him a little, knowing that despite everything he’s done, some of these people are here for him. 

Randy Orton is already in the ring, waiting. He points at Seth, beckons him in with two fingers, but Seth ignores him and lets Joey go first, just like they agreed. He watches from the apron as they lock up and Orton powers Joey down, twists his arm in a brutal submission hold. His eyes are locked on Seth.

Seth’s pulse picks up. He swallows, jumping on the apron to keep warm. Hunter’s directions had been very clear. Let Orton wear himself out on Joey and Jamie, let them do most of the work, only tag in to finish it.

Orton hauls Joey to his feet and shoves him against their corner. When Jamie makes the tag instead of Seth, Orton’s face darkens. Seth’s hugging the rope, breathing in all the scents of the ring, of sweat and burnt dust, scorched by the sharp lights. He can feel the ring bounce under his feet when Orton throws Jamie down and stomps on him. For a moment, he vividly recalls that same booth against his ribs, and something snaps. He’s up on the top rope and launches himself at Orton, ignoring the ref's protests. Orton goes down, curling on the ground to protect his head. Three on one. Hunter wants them to state an example. Seth kicks Orton in the ribs, hard, feeling sick and satisfied at the same time. The ref is shouting at them, threatening a DQ, and Hunter wouldn’t mind but Seth would rather win this clean. They pull back, make a proper tag, and Seth leans against the rope, waits for Orton to get to his knees.

”You get him, Seth!” Jamie shouts, shrill and excited. ”You show him!”

Orton begins to rise and Seth lunges forward to deliver a curbstomp, but mid-step he falters.

He remembers. All of it.

Orton’s lightning fast. He goes for the RKO and somehow Seth pushes him off. He needs to get away. There’s a slap on his back, canvas under his hands and then there’s nothing and he’s staggering until hands catch him. Joey. Joey is pulling him back, screaming something in his ear, but he can't make his limbs cooperate. He turns his attention back to the ring just in time to see Orton hit Jamie with the RKO, and the impact of Jamie’s body against the canvas makes him flinch. Orton flips Jamie over and pins him, and as the ref’s hand marks the one-two-three Seth feels like there are two different people inside of his head and he can’t tell which one of them is real. 

Orton’s eyes are cold as he gets to his feet. He kicks Jamie aside contemptuously. This is the man Seth handed a steel chair, then stepped aside to watch him finish what Seth had started. This is the man who stalked Seth around the arena and beat him within an inch of his life. This is the man Hunter pitched him against, over and over again, just waiting to see which one of his investments would come out on top. 

Hunter never called him at the hospital.

Randy Orton put him there, but Hunter never bothered to check in, to see if he was fine.

Dean did.

_You love wrestling more than you’ve ever loved anyone or anything_

_Because calling Daddy when the going gets rough is what you do_

_Hurt Dean again and I will end you_

_You're going to get your memories back and you'll remember why you left_

_Hurt Dean again and I will end you_

_You’ll remember_

 

It wasn’t any one thing. That’s the horror of it. He didn’t wake up one morning knowing that Roman had to be taken out first, that Dean would be too shocked to fight back, that all he’d need would be a few well-placed chair shots to render them helpless.

It was Hunter, making him a one time offer he couldn’t refuse.

It was Roman, coming in from NFL and learning more about wrestling in a few short years than most men did in a decade, taking to the trade like he was born for it. Roman, with the presence and the aura and the promise written in his blood, threatening to eclipse them all.

It was Dean and the way he pressed his lips to the nape of Seth’s neck when he thought Seth was sleeping, whispering secrets in his ear, dangerous, volatile words like _always thought I was gonna die before making it here_ and _you remind me that I'm human_ and _I’d rather take a bottle to the face than fall in love but here we fucking are._

It was getting lost in the fray, when the only thing he’d ever wanted was to be the best.

It was Stephanie, with a kiss on the cheek and a promise: _We will make you great, Seth. You will headline Wrestlemania, not just once, but over and over again. There will be nothing holding you back from reaching your true potential. All you have to do is-_

It was being comfortable. Complacent. Safe. 

It was kissing Dean, desperate and with an urgency he couldn’t put into words, knowing that if he didn’t walk out now, he’d stay forever.

 

Seth laughs, because if he doesn't, he'll cry. Roman was right, it’s all bullshit, every reason he’s ever given and every reason he’s ever head. There is no master plan. There never was. What do you do with the knowledge that you stabbed your brothers in the back because you were scared and time was running out?

The Authority is waiting for him in Gorilla, all scowls and faux concern. Seth catches a glimpse of Dean, still sweaty and disheveled from his earlier gauntlet match as he disappears around the corner.

"Seth." Hunter reaches out, grabs his arm.

Seth twists free. "Not now." He pushes Joey out of the way, ignores the look Kane gives him.

"Seth!" Hunter snaps, in a tone that has never failed to make Seth fall in line, but that was before. When he needed Hunter's validation only slightly less than he needed air to breathe. When he didn’t know that he’d wake up alone in a hospital bed one day, and the only person in the world who’d give a damn would be the scruffy, sweaty, obnoxious, vindictive asshole who’s walking away from him as they speak.

He catches up with Dean on the way to the locker room. There's people everywhere. He doesn't call out but Dean turns as if he heard him coming.

”Rollins." He leans against the wall, exhaustion written in every line of his body. His voice is sharp and cold, as if the last couple of weeks never happened. "You look like you saw a ghost. Orton scare you that bad?"

Someone snickers. Seth ignores it. "We need to talk."

"The hell we do.”

Despite his words, Dean doesn't resist when Seth grabs his arm and hauls him away. The first door on their right is locked, but the second opens to a small storage room with boxes and garbage bags and cleaning utensils leaning against the wall. He shoves Dean in, pulling the door closed behind them and muffling the sound of wolf-whistles and cheers in the hallway.

In the dark crowded space Seth fumbles for the light switch. The fluorescent lamp flickers and hums, then steadies, and for a moment they just stare at one another. Seth’s heart is in his throat. ”I remember,” he says, voice shaky.

”No. I’m not doing this. No.” Dean twists aside, reaches for the door, and Seth captures his arm and pushes him back against the shelves. A mop topples over and hits the floor.

”No, Dean, wait, listen. I’d heard of you, Jimmy’d told me about you, but I’d never seen you wrestle and after that first match I went home and I googled the shit out of you, and I swear to god, I could not stop. You had this- the way you move, that reckless energy, all attitude and bad judgement, and I didn't fall in love with you then but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I came back to the next match and I couldn't tell where Jon Moxley stopped and Dean Ambrose began and it drove me crazy that I couldn’t beat you.

”And that time in Flagstaff when you told me to kiss you or punch you or get out of your face, and I kissed you?" Seth laughs shakily. "I'd wanted to do it for months. I didn't think you'd kiss me back, and then when you did, I was so sure it was just another mind game, you trying to rattle me, playing gay chicken or something. But I meant what I said. I did. Only then I got scared and I fucked it up and god, Dean, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Turning on you was the worst mistake I ever made and I'd do anything to make it right." 

He cuts himself off. Dean is unnaturally still, face closed off and unreadable, and the bright, flaring hope that brought him here flickers out and fades. _Anything_ is a pathetic offer after the months and months he’s spent trying to tear Dean down just to get ahead. He’s suddenly awkwardly aware of close they are, pressed up against each other in the tiny space, and he takes a step back.

”I’m sorry,” he says again. ”It wasn’t fair to spring it on you like this. I just wanted to say that I know. That I hurt you. And I’d take it back if I could.”

”All right.” Dean’s voice is flat.

Of course it’s not that simple. How could it be? Seth makes move towards the door, and Dean is up on his face in an instant, shoving him back against the shelves hard enough to bruise. 

”Don’t you fucking walk away from me. You goddamn coward. You asshole. Don’t you fucking tell me you remember just to run right back to mommy and daddy like it’s nothing to you. Fuck you. _Fuck_ you.” 

”I don’t know what to say.” Seth raises his hands in surrender. ”I’m sorry, all right? I was wrong. I fucked up. I knew I fucked up the moment Roman went down and I saw the look on your face but by then it was too late. So I just kept going, telling myself it was worth it, that I didn’t need you, that you’d have done the same to me-”

”Like fuck I would have!” 

”I know.” Seth draws a ragged breath. "I’ve known it for a while. Hunter once said it was only a question of who would break first, but it wasn’t, was it? It could only ever have been me.”

”You stupid son of a bitch.” Dean shakes his head, but there’s something in his tone, something almost…

Seth lets his hands fall. ”I don’t expect you to forgive me. I get that there’s nothing I can say that would change anything. I-”

”Oh, shut up. I’m not in the mood for your guilt trips. Can we just skip to the part where you man up and ask for forgiveness?” There’s a hard glint in Dean’s eyes, like he doesn’t think Seth will do it, like saying sorry is one thing, but actually asking for forgiveness is another. 

Seth doesn’t think it is, not until he opens his mouth and feels his throat constrict. ”I-” He clears his throat, trying to loosen it up. ”Forgive me?” It comes out weak and uncertain, and Dean huffs a laugh under his breath.

”That was the shittiest apology ever. You might want to work on your delivery before you try it on Roman. Maybe make it a whole sentence or something.”

”Does that mean… yes?”

Dean crosses his arms over his chest, tilts his head to the side and eyes Seth speculatively. ”I don’t know,” he finally says. "Yeah. I guess. Not because you deserve it, because you don’t. And if you’d tried that a before the whole amnesia thing I’d have punched you in the face. But I guess I got used to having you around again. So, yeah.” He pauses. ”There are conditions, though.” 

”Of course there are,” Seth says dryly, but there’s an smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t think there’s anything Dean could ask for that he wouldn’t happily give.

”No more Authority.”

”Done.”

Dean’s eyebrows go up at the easy way he agrees. ”Whenever we split a pizza, I choose the toppings.”

”Fair enough. Though if you get anchovies, I won’t eat it.”

”More for me.” Dean thinks for a moment. ”I ride shotgun when Roman’s driving.”

”Now you’re just being petty,” Seth complains, but that goofy smile won’t go away. ”What else? Do I carry your bag? Buy your beers? Fluff your pillows?”

"Nah." Dean shrugs, all feigned nonchalance. ”But you could kiss me.”

”Yeah?” Seth doesn’t recognize his own voice, light and hopeful.

”Yeah. Not like I’ve been able to think of anything else anyway.” 

The wry admission makes Seth’s heart skip a beat. He steps forward, places a hand on Dean’s chest and leans in, letting their lips brush together. Dean’s lips are soft, his breath tasting of menthol and cigarettes, and when he doesn’t stiffen or move back Seth kisses him for real, gentle and careful.

”Not gonna break, Rollins,” Dean grumbles into his mouth, and Seth curls his hand into Dean’s hair, damp with sweat, and tugs. Dean groans, and Seth smiles against his skin.

”Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He nips at Dean’s earlobe, slips his hands under Dean’s tank top, and goes back to kissing while he digs his nails into Dean’s back and scratches, slowly and deliberately, feeling Dean arch towards him with a hungry gasp.

”Goddamn," Dean breathes. "I want- But not here.”

Seth wants to argue, to point out that Dean’s never minded semi-public sex before and there’s no reason they can’t do this twice, here and wherever else Dean wants to, but it’s way too soon to push and the thought of a room and a bed and a shower is too tempting to give up. ”Yeah, all right.”

”And not tonight.” Dean kisses Seth’s jaw, the side of his throat, his collarbone, light little touches as if to soften the sting of rejection. ”I’ve gotta- I got to think about this. And you’ve got to talk to Rome. He’s got to be on board or it’s not happening.”

Seth groans and leans his head back, shivering when Dean’s teeth graze the sensitive skin above his collarbone. ”All right. Yeah.”

Someone pounds on the door. ”Break it up in there! You’ve got ten seconds or I’m coming in with the hose.”

Dean snorts a laugh, hiding his face in the crook of Seth’s neck. ”Jesus.”

It hits Seth then, the first tendril of fear. ”Hunter’s going to kill me.”

”Well, then.” Dean takes his hand, braiding their fingers together. ”Let’s give him a good reason.”

There’s a crowd gathered outside when they open the door and step out, hand in hand. Seth’s mouth tastes like iron and rust and his heart is pounding in his ears. The whistles and shouts of the other wrestlers die down as Hunter and Stephanie round the corner, her heels clicking against the floor. The roster parts for them like the red sea.

Dean hugs his hand tighter, and Seth looks at Hunter and wills himself not to flinch at the cold fury on his face. 

”We need to talk.”

 

Forty-five minutes later, walking out of the most harrowing meeting of his career, Seth’s not sure he’d describe what just happened as ’talking’. Dean’s waiting for him in the deserted parking lot, leaning against the car and fiddling with something. When Seth comes closer, he sees that it’s an empty cigarette packet.

”You okay?”

”Still alive.” Seth’s voice is hoarse. In a day or two, he’ll be proud of himself, but right now he feels rotten. Guilty, disloyal, ungrateful, undeserving. They had talked of stripping him of the briefcase on some bullshit stipulation, burying him in the midcard where he belongs.

”We put you where you are,” Hunter had said, with cutting contempt. ”We handed you everything. If you want to find out what you can do on your own, be my guest. Let’s see how long your friends will have your back when they remember what you’re really like.”

It wasn’t Hunter’s and Stephanie’s fury that got to him. It was their disappointment. Like they’d expected more from him. Like they’d counted on him, trusted him, and he’d let them down.

Because that’s who he is. That’s what he does. He uses people, he lies to them, and he lets them down. What if he can’t change? What if that is as hardwired into him as the need to wrestle and to win?

He gets in the passenger seat and leans back, eyes closed, as Dean buckles up and starts the car. The air conditioning is at full force, despite the chill in the air, and the radio automatically starts up at some classic rock station. Dean turns it off and backs out of their spot. He waits until they’re clear of the arena before he speaks again.

”Do we need to worry?”

Seth doesn’t know if he means about them or about him, but he shakes his head anyway. ”I’ll handle it.” 

”Not on your own, you’re not.”

This isn’t their fight, though. He knows Dean and Roman aren’t scared of the Authority, but that’s just because they don’t know them like he does. He’s pretty sure he’s just ended his career. He’s terrified he might have ended theirs. Seth turns his head, looking at Dean’s profile, illuminated by the street lights and passing cars. ”You shouldn’t be seen with me. If you stay away, you’ll be fine. Cut a couple of promos, tell the world you were just messing with me, let me take my beatings. They’ll leave you be.”

Dean glances at him. ”So what, you’re just going to roll over and play dead?”

”No. I’ll fight. And if I can’t, I guess- well, there are other promotions.” The words taste like lead in his mouth. He did well for himself in Ring of Honor, and he could probably go to Japan if he wanted to, but the WWE was always the endgame. Shawn Michaels was a four-time world champion and the first ever grand slam champion, he won the Royal Rumble twice, and that’s still just scratching the surface of everything he did. Seth has never been World Heavyweight Champion, and what felt like a sure thing when he got his hand on the Money in the Bank briefcase, now seems precariously up in the air.

Dean says nothing. It’s a relief. It’s too late to do the five hour drive to San Diego, so they drive to a small hotel in the outskirts of town, where Roman’s got them a room. Dean showered at the arena, but Seth feels sticky and gross, the cold sweat on his body making him shiver. He escapes into the shower as soon as they reach the hotel, leans his forehead against the cool tiles as the water washes over him. 

Seth. Wrestler. Liar. Proud. Coward.

 _Traitor_.

That’s what Hunter called him, while Stephanie looked furious enough to cry.

Roman and Dean would agree.

He takes a deep breath and reaches for the shampoo, pours it into his hand and starts working it into his hair before he recognizes the scent. It’s Roman’s, the mildy scented mineral stuff he likes, and Seth blinks against the barrage of memories.

When he comes out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, Dean and Roman are sprawled on one of the beds, talking quietly. Seth hesitates, and Roman sits up and shifts to make space for him. ”Hey. Dean told me what you did.”

Seth turns his back on them to pull on a pair of clean boxers and his favorite black jeans, then sits down at the edge of the bed to dry his hair. ”They’ll come after you too.”

”They can try,” Roman says with a shrug, unconcerned.

Seth lowers the towel. ”You should jump me. Backstage, in San Diego. Just make sure there are cameras around to catch it.”

Dean and Roman exchange a look and it’s not the one he expected. Less concerned, more exasperated.

”Tell me one thing,” Roman says. ”Are you done with the Authority? No regrets, no take-backs? No running back to them when the going gets rough or Hunter sweetens the deal?”

”I can’t.” Seth’s pretty sure there’s regret in his voice, even though he wants there not to be. ”I know this sounds absurd, but I really did think they cared about me. I know they’re ruthless and vicious and corrupt, that they use people and spit them out, but I thought-”

”You thought you were the exception.” Roman’s voice is mild.

”I really, really did.” Seth folds the towel, then folds it again, before he lets it fall to the floor. ”But without my memories, it was like I could see without things like hope and loyalty and pride and fear getting in the way. I didn’t know them enough to make excuses for them. All I had was facts and the fact is, I’m nothing to them. They would cut me loose as easy as they did Orton.” He looks up, meeting Roman’s gaze. ”I’m not going back. Not ever.”

Roman nods, like Seth just confirmed something he already knew or guessed at. ”All right. This self-sacrificing penitent shit you’re doing, isolating yourself, making yourself the perfect victim? It stops here. The next time you feel the urge to propose a plan that involves us ditching you and watching from the sidelines while you get the crap beaten out of you, just go lift some weights until it’s gone. Because that? That’s not going to happen. You’re better than that and you know it. Of the three of us, you’re the only one who likes going in with a plan, so until you’ve got your head straight again, we’re just going to wing it, one day at a time. You feel self-destructive, you talk to us. Or hit the gym. Whatever. You’ve got a second chance here if you want it. Don’t throw it away because you think you don’t deserve it. That’s not for you to say.”

”You know what I’m like,” Seth says quietly. ”What if I can’t change?”

”What if you can?”

Seth lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping. It’s not a promise. No guarantees. But it’s better and nothing, and maybe even better than what he had when he had it all. He glances at the briefcase, still standing under the coat rack by the door where he left it when he came in.

”I’m sorry,” he says, because Roman deserves to hear it too.

”Yeah, I figured.” Roman ruffles Seth’s hair like he hasn’t in well over a year, rough and affectionate, and stands up. ”Gotta call home before JoJo goes to bed. Ya’ll had better not be fucking around when I come back. Left bed’s mine, stay out of it.”

Dean throws a crumbled receipt at his head, and Roman ducks it easily, flipping him off over his shoulder. 

After he’s gone, Seth shifts on the bed and looks at Dean. ”So…”

”Nope. No more talking.” Dean grabs the remote and tosses it to Seth. ”Pick a channel, then come here and shut up.”

They end up watching the last third of some Star Trek movie, curled up on the bed. Seth’s got his head on Dean’s shoulder, just because he can, and Dean’s playing with his hair, mindlessly separating the blonde strands from the brown, then mixing them up just to start over again. As the tension leaves his body, Seth closes his eyes and lets his mind wander.

Roman comes back in time for the epic final battle. Seth is too comfortable to open his eyes, but he hears him crack open a beer and hand it to Dean before settling on the other bed with one of his own. The credits roll, commercials giving way to some nineties sitcom, and Dean’s voice is a low rumble in his chest as he and Roman talk about the drive tomorrow, the hum of their voices interspersed with the laugh track on the tv. 

It’s not over. Nothing’s solved or figured out. But Dean’s fingers never stop moving, and Seth’s last thought before falling asleep is that this is what it must feel like to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over. This could probably use a lot more editing and one (or five) additional rewrites, but I'm done. Thank you to everyone who's been along for the ride, for your support and your patience. With this update, I broke 100 000 words here on A03. I'd drink to that, if it weren't in the middle of the night and I should have gone to bed hours ago.


End file.
